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voiceoffenrisulfr · 3 months

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You Don't Know Me

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 -> Bucky Barnes x NB Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> Nat’s charity auction doesn’t quite go off without a hitch – but luckily, Buck is on hand to help out, reluctant as he may be. Until he meets you, that is.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 1507

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (T) Language

𝐀/𝐍 -> I have no idea. Random fluffy oneshot goodness. Utter candyfloss Bucky, sweetly understanding reader.

Prompts fulfilled; ‘Himbo’ and ‘Bachelor Auction– @buckybarnesevents (Build-a-Bucky Bingo); “I Understood Most of That.” – @fandom-free-bingo (Flight Edition); ‘We Can’t Even Compromise or Not Needing to be Told’ – @julybreakbingo (Pre-July Flash); ‘Social Media’ – @fandombingo; ‘Coming out’, “My pronouns are they/them.” and ‘Queer’ – @lgbtqbingo; ‘I Can’t Believe I Ate The Whole Thing’ – @multifandom-flash Thanksgiving Flash (7026); ‘Awkwardness’ – Gen Prompt Bingo (Here on Dreamwidth) Check it out below, or on AO3 here! Stagbug sticker used in cards from here.

“Not a fucking chance.”

Nat turned her emerald eyes on Bucky’s, wide and pleading. “C’mon, James! Steve got called away at the last minute- we promised an Avenger! It’s all over social media, and it’s packed out there. Can’t we compromise?”

“What about Clint?” he grunted, and she fluttered her eyelashes, sidling closer.

“He’s not as popular as you...” she purred, resting her head on his shoulder to gaze up at him adoringly, earning a laugh from the soldier.

“You don’t want to hand over your boyfriend, more like,” he snorted, shaking his head, and letting out a heavy sigh when she simply continued to stare, a fond smile curving the bow of his lip. “Fine, fine... What do I have to do?”

Her face split wide in a broad grin, and she clasped her hands together, shifting excitedly. “Nothing! Just stand there and look pretty.”

He flexed and stretched pointedly, a companionable arm draping over her shoulders as he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. “Fortunately, that comes naturally to me.”

All of Bucky’s bravado faded as he stood awkwardly on the stage, spotlights shining down on his uncertain grin as his eyes scanned the audience, absently listening to Nat wax lyrical about his many positive attributes (and carefully not mentioning that he was most known in the Tower for his intense nightmares that woke up anyone within three floors). Bucky simply hooked a thumb in the pocket of his jeans, leaning back on his heels, flashing a cocky smirk, his heart pounding a little harder at the sighs and sounds of delight from those in the crowd. He was an attractive man, and he knew it – but that made this process all the more daunting. Since he’d joined the team, the only people he’d managed to date were either chasing the fame, or just interested in one thing.

It seemed that anyone he spent time with had their own expectations of who he was; the problem was, he wasn’t that person. Perhaps he had been, once upon a time, but he’d lived a long life, and times had taught him that just because people found him attractive didn’t mean he had to bed everyone he could.

The unfortunate reality was that nobody seemed to stop and ask; nobody took the time to get to know him, to learn about him and how he worked. Not that he minded, especially – pleasure was pleasure, and if he truly didn’t want to, he made it clear. He simply longed for someone to care.

And yet, here he stood, with dozens of eyes assessing him. It was nice, but…

“Sold! Now, remember the rules, folks. This is a charity auction; keep it clean, or the contract is null and void. Come and collect your prize!” Nat added, gesturing into the blur of faces.

And that’s when his eyes met yours at last, pale blue meeting deep brown, and his smile widened, just a little, as you blushed.

You stood beside him uncertainly, head ducked and fingers knotted together, and he grinned down at you politely. “So… You won me for the evening, huh? Congratulations. It was a pretty fierce competition.” You nodded, cheeks growing darker, and he bit back a chuckle at your shyness. “What did you have planned?”

“I thought you might like dinner,” you whispered tentatively, and his eyebrows raised.

“I- I mean, I can try, I suppose. I’m not much of a cook, but-”

You cut off his stammering with a quick shake of your head, looking up at last. “No! No, I wouldn’t- I meant that… I’d like to take you for dinner. I imagine you don’t get to just… Have a nice meal and some relaxed company very often, so…” You shrugged, toe scuffing the ground, and his eyes lightened as he smiled.

“That sounds really nice,” he assured you gently, reaching out to squeeze your bicep gently with strong metal fingers. “I’d like that…” He paused, head cocked, and you barked out a laugh.

“Oh. Yeah. Uh- Bug. You can call me Bug… My pronouns are they/them,” you added quickly, brow furrowing just a little. There was an edge of uncertainty to your voice, and you winced as you heard it, but he simply continued to smile, nodding once.

“Bug.”

“- and then that couples the neutral stimulus to the unconditioned stimulus to elicit a conditioned response. It’s pretty simple, really.”

Your eyes were bright as you explained the basic principles behind – yet another – training method from your work, quickly followed by your cheeks flushing pink and your eyes lowering. “I- Sorry. I could talk about this forever.”

“Feel free,” he replied, chuckling, his head cocked endearingly to one side as he took you in. “I understood… Most of that, and it’s nice to see some enthusiasm; I don’t get a lot of it in my line of work.” Your eyebrow raised in disbelief, and he laughed. “Well, I suppose that’s not quite true. They’re enthusiastic in some ways, but it’s not…” His hand cycled thoughtfully as he hummed. “… Passion, you know? It’s something they do because they kind of have to. They have these gifts, and, one way or another, they ended up in the team, and that’s… Just the way it is.” His brow furrowed a little, lips pursed, and you leant onto your elbows, considering him quietly.

“You said ‘they’. Like you don’t consider yourself one of them.”

Blinking in surprise, he paused for a moment before nodding slowly. “I suppose not. I am, I guess, but… The only one who really knows me is Steve. And even he doesn’t know everything,” he added with a rueful smile, shrugging a shoulder.

“He doesn’t?” you mused aloud, eyes still locked on his. Your focus was entirely on him – there was no glancing around, no checking to see who saw the two of you together. There was no discreet – or not-so-discreet – flicks of your gaze to the muscles of his chest or his exposed forearms. You were paying attention to him, as a person behind the persona, and he was enchanted.

“I’m not... Nobody- I-” He’d begun quickly, but paused as he faltered, blowing air up to clear the hair that was falling into his eyes as they flitted away uncertainly. “I… Guess not. Does anyone ever know anyone else, really?” he added cryptically, offering you a wry smile. “I can’t believe I finished the entire thing…” The redirect was clear as he nodded towards his empty plate, the heaping helping of carbonara having been eagerly eviscerated by his increased metabolism.

You simply watched him in silence for a moment, head cocked curiously, before offering him a reassuring smile of your own. “How about I tell you a little about me?” you prompted softly, hardly waiting for a nod of confirmation before continuing. “I’m non-binary. Folks don’t always understand that – what it means to be outside the societal expectations of male and female. But for me, it just feels… Like me, you know? Like neither of those labels quite fit right. I’m somewhere in between – or something else entirely, I suppose. It’s just who I am.” He nodded again, his brow furrowed slightly with curiosity, and your lips quirked higher. “I’m also bi… And I’m somewhere on the asexual spectrum – though I can never quite settle on where!” You chuckled slightly, resting a chin on your hand, mahogany eyes locked on his diverted pale ones. “Do you know much about asexuality? I’m happy to tell you more, if you like.”

“I’m familiar,” he replied quietly, still unable to meet your gaze, and you reached out to squeeze his hand gently.

“I think I’d like to get to know you,” you murmured, smiling a little wider when he finally looked up, “if you’d let me, of course. I think we might have some things in common, huh?”

He hesitated for a moment, then frowned, eyes shifting to your hand on his. “You just want to know the Soldier… That’s what everyone wants. The fame. This,” he added, his tone free from ego as he gestured at himself with his free hand, and you quirked an eyebrow.

“While I’m sure you’re very irresistible to the allosexuals of the world – ace, remember? This,” - you mimicked his gesture playfully – “doesn’t do all that much for me. You’re a pretty man, sure. But… I’m most interested in why you do what you do. You risk your life on a daily basis for complete strangers; I’m curious about what makes someone quite so altruistic. I’m interested in you, James. You seem like a good guy, and I think you don’t have too many people in your life who want to hear about you without all the muscle and cameras.”

He could only stare in surprise, stunned into silence by your short speech, and leant forward, just a little. “I think I’m demisexual,” he blurted quickly, his cheeks colouring crimson at the words.

You simply smiled, fingers squeezing gently around his. “It’s nice to meet you, James.”

#fanfiction #mine #fandom: marvel #writers on tumblr #writing bingo #rating: t #july break bingo #lgbtq bingo #fandom free bingo: flight edition #bucky barnes events #build a bucky bingo 2023 #fandom bingo #multifandom flash bingo #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x NB reader #SoldierBug #Bucky Barnes x Bug

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sgt-scottymoreau · 1 month

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"I've tried to move on, but no one else makes me feel the way you do." For Camy and Ghost 😘💚

Prompt list

Went in the angst territory here. Not too much, but just enough >:3

Warning: None

Words: 843

Their breakup had been a mutual understanding. They both had agreed to end things, on good terms. With their line of work and the fear of eventually not being able to keep their promise that their feelings wouldn't interfere in a situation, it seemed best like this. Here and there, there was some slip up in some old habits, but they made sure to watch themselves.

This went on for a month. It was hard in the beginning because obviously they still loved each other. Hell, when Scotty dared to try to return on the date board, it felt weird. In the end, their new status made everything awkward and hard to work around, so Scotty made a big decision. Return home. If the 141 needed her she would be more than happy to come back or team up with them again.

Another month has passed since. Returning back to her previous PMC wasn't too hard to adapt. That was the easy part. The hard part was to pretend that all the feelings she still had were nothing, that eventually they will fade away. She tried again, a little hard pushing herself even when she didn't feel too much like it, to date again. It made her fall back into some old habits. Some dates ended up in a simple one night stand, others were good. It felt like there was a connection, maybe it could work. Yet, it wasn't the same thing. They were nice people really, but there was that little something missing. A little something only Ghost made her feel. True to be told, he had been the one in a long time to remind her what romance, love was.

The day at work had been hard today. Add the most depressing weather of all year around; rain and grey. When Scotty finally found the warmth and comfort of home, she was more than happy about it. A quick change of clothes into something more comfortable and she began to contemplate what had to be done. A lot. For instance, make dinner. Cleaning up the pile of clothes and washing could wait another day or two. Feeling how empty the place was, Scotty turned on the radio to fill the void. However, it added another layer of regret. It reminded her when she would be cooking with Ghost. She never realized how the little mundane thing had changed and meant more to her. With a heavier heart than she wished for, she pushed through the evening.

Sat in front of the tv, letting whatever program was running in the background, Scotty's thumb hovered above the send button. She had written at least three four lines, every time erasing it and trying once more with a different wording, but it was never what she wanted. It didn't sound exactly the way she wanted it to be. Her thumb slowly raised to the direct call button above. Perhaps that would be better. Nothing beats the emotions of the voice. Half prepared for the call, she pressed the button. Only realized she pressed the video call option, when her face showed on the screen. Oh, so be it.

"Hey." He wasn't wearing his mask. Meant he was probably home.

"Hey, how are you doing?" Just this small introduction felt awkward.

"I'm good. Why do you call?"

She regretted the video call. There was no way for her to hide whatever face she wanted to make or be able to hide her emotions behind a fake tone. Her eyes avoided the screen as much as possible. "Have you ever made a decision and regretted it?"

He remained silent for a second or two, thinking. "Depends on the context. But I do."

"What about something recent?"

"Sc- Camille, just spit it out."

"Ok, ok. Was it a mistake to break up? Maybe we shouldn't have. I mean I know why we did, but... did we really have to? No way could we have worked it out?"

She noticed his shoulders slacking. "I thought we both accepted it was for the best."

"We did but... You know... To be honest, I try to return to the dating game. I thought it would help get over the feelings I still had for you. That if I was seeing someone else, I could be around you really as a friend. What I mean is I've tried to move on, but no one else makes me feel the way you do."

He stayed silent for a moment. Longer than the previous time. It was probably a lot to take in. She did admit she was looking for someone else not long after their breakup. But it was the truth. That love, the romance, the yearning, it was only Ghost who made her feel that way. A connection she only had with him. "Do you want to come back here?" He had a smile on his face as he patted the seat near to him on the couch.

"I would love that."

"Alright, when is the next train to London?"

#cod fanfic #cod oc #simon ghost riley #oc:camille scotty moreau #writing prompt

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ellemany · 1 year

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Stressed Out - Chapter VII

<<< Index

<<< Last Chapter

Vacuum

Recommended Music: 505 - Artic Monkeys

Vacuum is a space where there is no matter, that is, empty.

Viper feels a vacuum inside herself due to the lack of Chamber. And, with nightfall, she considers filling that void somehow. Even if it means taking down her pride and sending him a message.

It took three episodes of a reality show with a questionable quality and two pepperoni pizzas for Reyna and Fade give up trying to cheer Viper after throwing cruel truths in her face. Viper escorted them to the door with her head low. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so defeated.

Reyna gave her an awkward hug and Fade did the same, patting her on the back.

- Everything will get better… - Viper took a deep breath, irritated by the mediocrely generic phrase. Fade smiled, walking away from her. – See you!

Viper nodded but held Fade's hand, preventing her from leaving.

- Can you… - Viper pressed her lips, looking at their hands together. – Can you... Not expose Chamber? He deserves it, but… - Viper swallowed it dry, shaking the other's hand.

Chamber might have been a filthy sneaky idiot, but he had the decency to tell Viper that he hid a lot of things. Viper clearly remembered them lying on the bed, glued to each other, while he admitted he still couldn't talk about it to her. Chamber passed his thumb by her arm, as if the gesture brought comfort to himself.

Viper understood it. She also had secrets locked in seven keys she didn't want to expose.

But knowing that at some point he would have the courage to open up to her, it gave her a sense of responsibility for him and his secrets.

Chamber was still her filthy sneaky idiot.

Fade blinked a few times, surprised at the request. She smiled comfortingly at Viper, feeling privileged to be able to see a melted heart in someone cold as ice.

- Sure...

Viper nodded, dropping Fade's hand and crossing her arms.

- Thanks...

Fade smirked and turned around, leaving the apartment.

- We'll see you tomorrow!

Viper tried to force a smile. She ended up making a tired grimace and closed the door. She reflected on what she had just done.

Viper might not be the most caring person in the world. However, she could not deny that she felt the need to protect Chamber. She'd gotten used to taking care of him. She thought of the tests of previous experiments, when Chamber arrived at the lab with that same look of defeat that he had exhibited in the infirmary. Viper knew exactly what he needed without using words. She would go to his desk and hold his face, forcing him to raise his head to look at her. A low look never matched him. Viper would ask about "what went wrong this time?", reminding him that each failure was a learning opportunity. He would pass his hands around his waist, muttering the list of defects he had missed before testing the new weapon. She would complain that he had to do more than one check, in addition to improving a minimal little thing in the project that only she would give importance, while kissing his face to heal the emotional wound, assuring him that she was there to take care of everything. She would offer him a Snickers and sit on his lap to make the adjustments he had missed. He'd watch she work, in that way that she pretended she didn't notice so she wouldn't blush.

Chamber must have been devastated that Viper didn't go talk to him after discover of the flaw in their project.

Because Viper was devastated to let her man face it all alone.

The scientist shook her head, pushing away her dark thoughts. What a silly thing she was to let her heart guide her mind.

She looked the apartment. There was nothing interesting to watch or play on TV, as she didn't know which movie Chamber would choose for them to see and he wasn't there to support her legs while she was playing. She wasn't in the mood to eat either. She felt a weight fall on her shoulders just to consider the idea of going back to the lab. She decided to go to bed and, hopefully, sleep.

While waiting for sleep to come, Viper made one of the worst decisions anyone with a relationship issue could make.

Lying on her bed, she reread the messages with Chamber. The heart was tight, and the mouth formed a sad smile for the way they were. It's been four days since she'd make a grimace for a nickname in French he gave her. It's been four days since they gossiped about the life of one of the agents. It's been four days since they talked about some random subject that only they understood. By the heavens, she heard old audios out of sheer nostalgia for the sweet way he spoke to her. Viper thought she was the most ridiculous little being on the planet for doing all that and still couldn't stop torturing herself in that mediocre way.

Viper touched the cell phone screen, watching the letters on the keyboard. She typed slowly, afraid of the words she was forming.

"I miss you"

She read the message a few times, wondering if she really wanted to let him know how she felt, until she noticed the subtle change in the messaging app screen, right below his name.

"Fabron"

"Typing..."

Her eyes shone and she sat on the bed. She deleted her own message and waited for his. She stared at the screen, nibbling her fingertip. Until the message changed to a simple "online". Her shoulders fell instantly, only to stiffen again by changing the message back to "Typing...". Two minutes passed like an eternity in the blink of an eye, with no new message.

Viper held her phone with both hands, writing quickly.

"Do you want to say something?"

The finger stopped before sending. She waited a little longer, thinking he would finally send his message. But the "typing" was gone, as was his online status. She reread her own message. Once, twice. Erased it.

Viper threw her cell phone beside her on the bed, lying on it again and hugging a pillow. She missed hugging Chamber to sleep. She missed his nasal breath when he had just returned from Bind and how he looked like a baby when he slept.

She fantasized about walking to his apartment and giving him a scolding for making her suffer so much for him. She'd scream and push him away for being a tremendous selfish proud narcissistic asshole and everything else he really was, just to pull him close and say she missed him so much that she was feeling sick. Viper really considered to do that.

But she was a person who liked to analyze everything pragmatically. Life wasn't a romantic comedy in which everything worked out with a kiss. It always had the after happily ever after. And generally, it wasn't that happy.

She could go on without him. Time would heal herr pain... Well, in thesis. Because Viper knew better than anyone that there were wounds that time did not heal. She realized she didn't want Chamber to become one more scar on her calloused heart.

She could go to him. But, it wasn't fair. He was the idiot in that situation. He was the one that didn't have the guts to send her a miserable message. He was the wrong one. Viper's wounded pride was reminding her how much she did her best to receive the worst from him. So, Chamber didn't deserve anything from her anymore.

That was her brain talking.

Viper stared at a wall, fighting a mental struggle between reason and emotion from various perspectives. She slept at around 3 a.m., after making an extensive list of the pros and cons of continuing to have a romantic relationship with Chamber. It wasn't hard to find reasons to want to have a relatively happy life with him. And even less hard was to find reasons to want to kick him off a cliff and never look at his face again. And, in fact, she dreamed of both hypotheses.

Hard was to decide how she would deal with him in the morning, when they would have a mission together.

>>> Next Chapter

#valorant #valorant fanfiction #valorant viper #valorant chamber #Chiper #Bitemark #Stressed Out #Chapter VII #me trying

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universeinapen · 1 year

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With All My Heart

“And the chicken penne for you.” The waiter set down a large plate of cheese-coated pasta with grilled chicken mixed in right in front of me. On the other side of the table was a plate of steak and looking up was my friend, Angel. She smiled at me before moving to cut up her food. I smiled back at her.

After thanking the waiter we ate in silence for a little while. Occasionally, Angel would glance up at me from her food. She would mention something about another table nearby or give an awkward, hand-covering-her-mouth smile when the waiter asks if everything is going well.

The latter moment stuck with me. The way she glanced at the waiter with a hint of panic in her eyes, her mouth full of steak that she had just taken a bite of. I found myself smiling at her.

After that, we began to talk. We gossiped about the people at our work, talked about our plans this weekend, and we smiled at a toddler who wandered up to our table and babbled about a toy she had.

Angel laughed at what I said, her head tilting back and her hair falling away from her face. Rose colored her cheeks and her shoulders shook with her laughter. For some reason, I can no longer breathe properly.

That’s been happening for a while now. Angel would do something so small and random but suddenly, my chest would constrict and breathing would become difficult. I’d find myself staring at her until the feeling would pass or when I’d remember about the other people that we were hanging out with.

Half of my chicken penne remained untouched. I’ve distracted myself to the point where I’ve forgotten to eat.

“Hey, don’t make it obvious but look at the guy sitting at the bar over there,” Angel nodded over in the direction of the bar with a guy working on his laptop. He sat alone with gaps on either side of him.

“Okay? He sure is working.”

“Isn’t he cute? Even just a little bit?”

Now I couldn’t breathe again. My chest constricted tighter this time and my stomach sank into the void. I couldn’t describe what I’m feeling now, but it wasn’t good. Glancing between Angel and the guy, I felt something burning in my soul.

No. I can’t. That can’t be the reason why. My gaze drifted back up to Angel again, who seemed to be gauging my reaction to what she said. There was a hammer in my chest and it won’t stop rattling my heart around.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes shone in the dim lighting of the restaurant and I don’t think that my food will be finished any time soon.

“I,” I start, trying to figure out how to control my expressions. “He looks okay.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re cuter.”

A blush spread across her face just as mine heated up to a burning red. I couldn’t help but laugh at how out-of-nowhere that statement was. Yet, as the laughter faded away, the panic was back in her eyes. My smile fell away.

“I like you, Lily.”

“And you’re telling me at an Applebee's?”

“Why do you think I asked you here?”

“Did you try to make me jealous with the guy over there,” I threw a thumb over my shoulder, gesturing to my location.

“Maybe.”

“Well,” my heart is still beating as fast as a plane flying overhead. I can’t stop thinking about all the things I’ve noticed tonight or the way this is the first time I’ve seen Angel this nervous in a very long time. “It worked.”

https://letterpile.com/creative-writing/with-all-my-heart-a-short-story

#writing #writeblr #lgbtq #short story #story #fiction #flash fiction #lgbt story #romance

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dcbbw · 3 years

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The Witch Hunt

This fic is a highly fictionalized account of true events. I wrote it as a way of coping with the discourse and said it would never be publicly posted. But thanks to an ask from @twinkleallnight (and her persistence that anything I write needs to be shared and enjoyed by all), and discussions with my boos, bears, and Coven sisters … here it is.

HUGE THANK YOU to @ao719 for the amazing moodboard.

Thank you to my writing sisters for re-reading this story and assuring me that it still makes sense.

For all who will read this fic, THANK YOU! Your time, efforts, and energy spent reading, commenting, and/or reblogging is greatly appreciated more than you know.

Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. (I rushed through my final editing)

Only the Commoner and the King belong to Pixelberry.

Song Inspiration: Every Breath You Take, Scala/Kolacny Brothers: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bt63b4x2Xec

Word Count: 3,546

Eastwick

Light years and many moons from Reality, there is an alternate universe called Fandom where both children and witches live. The witches are a large coven, and spend their days writing spells; incantations of love, lust, and laughter … sometimes of darkness. The spells are for their intended and beloved, and tell of the lives and adventures the sorceresses wish to experience with them.

The witches live in a corner of the Fandom known as Cordonia, in a small town called Eastwick; for the most part, they all got along well and were supportive of each other. Within the coven were three sisters: Hilda, Zelma, and Glinda. The sisters lived together in a large Victorian house, complete with wraparound porch, bay windows, and spires. All three were well-known and well-liked throughout the coven.

Glinda was the most popular; her bright cheery smile and sweet personality made her a favorite throughout Eastwick.

Zelma was the friendliest; she knew nearly all the other witches, and read over their spells to ensure that nothing went wrong. One incorrect word or improper enunciation could twist the spell’s intention completely.

Hilda, who was also a wizardess, was the most empathetic; she offered hugs and a listening ear to the strays of the coven: The witches who either had no magic, or if they did, no idea how to use it. Her sisters were usually tolerant when Hilda brought home her newfound, friendless acquaintances … except for Apple Core. There was a reason the oldest citizen of Eastwick had never truly been a part of the coven, but Hilda insisted Apple Core just needed love.

The sisters were sitting at their kitchen table, writing spells for their love interests. Zelma was in love with the Commoner of Cordonia, as were many others; it did not deter her from sending her love spells into the universe, neither did it stop the Commoner from returning her affections.

Glinda and Hilda were in love with the King; as was the case with the Commoner, the sisters were in competition with many for his both his hand and his heart. Glinda had decided that she and Hilda would love different versions of the King so as not to make things awkward between them. Glinda fell in love with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed King, while Hilda’s King had dark hair, dark eyes, and Asian features.

“I love him so much,” Zelma murmured as she finished her spell, her eyes landing on a picture of the Commoner she had summoned in their crystal ball.

“And he loves you in return,” Glinda said while tapping her quill pen against her chin.

“He loves an alternate version of me. If he knew what I really looked like, he wouldn’t,” Zelma lamented.

“Our beloveds see our hearts and souls, not our outer appearances,” Hilda stated as she waved a wand over her spell of lust.

Silence as the sisters worked to finalize their spells before casting them into the Void. Suddenly, there was a jarring of the earth and a loud clap of thunder; it was so loud and sharp, Glinda covered her ears as the house shook.

Zelma looked up, her eyes darting around the room, as if the source of the disruption was in their home.

“The Dark One is casting.” She looked at her sisters uneasily.

WestWorld

On the other side of Cordonia, in WestWorld, The Guardian’s head lifted at the sound of distant thunder. Her eyes fell to her glass of water, now slightly moving across the table from the remnants of the shaking earth. Her gaze narrowed.

“The Witches!” she hissed.

WestWorld was where the children of Cordonia lived. There were some adults: survivors of trauma and abuse from their previous worlds, but the majority of the residents were children. The Guardian lived there to ensure the under-aged residents were properly housed, clothed and fed. She shielded them from the Witches, whose sorcery and magic were misunderstood by WestWorld.

The Guardian and her Army believed in love and light; no sex was needed for that. Angst and strife were not needed for that. Darkness definitely was not needed. So, the Guardian warned the children constantly not to venture into Eastwick and to never, under any circumstances, read the spells that were cast into the Void from the other side.

And now, the Witches were casting darkness into the Void … again. Dark magic was the only thing that would have such far reaching effects.

The Guardian retrieved an ornate gold box from her cupboards and removed the lid to reveal her crystal ball. She chanted as she waved her hands over the ball, summoning up a spell to inform her of what was happening.

The Dark One appeared in the glass, looking rather smug and pleased; her image faded, to be replaced by the parchment containing her spell. The Guardian fell into her chair, her eyes wide with shock as she read what the Dark One had cast.

The Guardian felt her stomach churn; the children would most certainly want to see what had caused such a disruption in their world. Normally, the citizens of West World were content to read their tales of otherworldly creatures from a time long past, or of the single mothers who loved their childen beyond measure.

But they were children, and they were curious.

And now Dark One was once again summoning the Guardian’s charges to the other side.

The Guardian rose hastily from the table, and ran through the halls calling for her Generals.

One Week Later

Eastwick

The Dark One sat in her living room, her eyes fixed on her Book of Spells, searching for an answer, a solution.

Something.

The Guardian and her Army were calling for the Dark One’s head. They wanted her banished from all of Cordonia, and her spells erased from existence.

The Dark One shook her head to herself.

That was unacceptable.

The Dark One was in love with the Commoner; she always had been since she first laid eyes on him. However, The Dark One knew she would never stand out in the sea of spells filled with love and lust. She didn’t speak that language.

No, she needed to speak to the Commoner soul to soul.

She focused not on his perfection, but his flaws and insecurities. She sought out the Commoner’s dark side that no one wanted to hear of or speak to. The Dark One offered the Commoner her broken pieces, her sorrow and hurt … and he was finally accepting them.

He was falling for her.

And she refused to let anyone stop them from being together.

With a small sigh, The Dark One sipped from her glass filled with hibiscus wine. This was not her first run- in with The Guardian. When The Dark One cast her first appeal to the Commoner’s dark side, her spell was met with resistance from both Eastwick and Westworld. She had taken a day away from the coven, not in shame, but to consider whether to remove her spell. If it inspired such strong feelings from her fellow witches, would it repel the Commoner?

But it did not.

He began looking her way. He urged her to tell him more about herself; he whispered more of his secrets in her ear. And The Dark One decided not to remove her spell simply because others were jealous the Commoner’s attentions were turning to her.

But now, The Guardian was viciously attacking her, over simple spells! There were threats of her murder if she did not comply with The Guardian’s request. Her sister witches, save for a few, were silent. The chosen to do battle with WestWorld fought alone; however The Dark One was given suggestions, instructions, and encouragements in private:

Listen to their concerns.

Perhaps you need to not cast so many spells.

Just stand down for a little while; it will blow over. The battles always do.

The Dark One thumbed slowly through her Book; her eyes took in the words that her soul had spilled. Her blood, sweat, and tears covered every page. And she knew what she had to do. She would step away from the coven; not because The Guardian told her to, but to protect the innocent.

It meant leaving the Commoner behind and The Dark One wasn’t sure she could do that. She had finally captured his attention and found her understanding.

But she would try.

She just had to do one last thing …

That night in Cordonia the earth shook, and the thunder clapped loudly and incessantly as The Dark One released nearly all her spells into the Void.

The Three Sisters

At the home of The Three Sisters, Zelma fretted as the house shook and dark clouds covered the sky.

“She’s been casting nonstop for a week! They’re threatening to kill her! And now what is she doing? The Void cannot handle so much dark energy.” Zelma stopped pacing to angrily throw her hands in the air. “She’s going to make it so none of us can cast!”

Glinda poured hot tea into three delicate teacups. “Perhaps we can appeal to The Guardian.”

“She won’t listen to us! With The Dark One being so unreasonable, The Guardian will set her sights on us. I’ve dealt with WestWorld once and I’m not eager to be once more tossed into that fray,” Hilda argued as she added honey and lemon to her fragrant beverage.

“If we use our powers of invisibility, she may. I see others from both sides are appealing to her in that manner.”

Zelma and Hilda barely heard their sister; they were watching the crystal ball reveal spell after spell flying past, flurries of parchment and ink whisking before them as if in a windstorm.

“Stop it! Stop the ball!” Hilda yelled.

With a frown of confusion, Glinda waved her hands over the sphere and froze the image. The sisters read the spell before them, eyes widening at the darkness it revealed. When they finished reading, they looked at each other, each trying to process what they just read.

Hilda straightened up. “This…this is not good. Perhaps I will approach the Guardian. I see where she has let the children read one of my spells. She praised it.”

“Perhaps … “Zelma said doubtfully as she reached for her cup.

The knock on the door startled the trio. Glancing at the clock, Glinda wondered aloud who it could be at this hour. Hilda went to the door; she was the oldest and viewed herself as her sisters’ protector. She pulled open the door to see Apple Core.

Apple Core was an outcast amongst the witches. She was without magic, and very demanding of members of the Coven. Apple Core had no true home and only one friend.

“Hello, dearie,” the outcast croaked.

“Good evening,” Hilda responded politely.

She noticed the older woman’s threadbare cloak and cracked, dry lips. Hilda stepped aside, pulling the door open wider as she did so.

“Please, come in. Perhaps partake in a glass of water? And a bowl of brew?”

Apple Core smiled thinly as she entered the household; she ignored Glinda and Zelma rolling their eyes at each other.

“The Dark One is releasing her magic quite freely tonight,” Apple Core remarked as she settled into a wooden rocking chair.

Glinda went to fetch water and brew for their visitor. Zelma and Hilda sat side by side on the sofa.

“Yes, she is. I plan to reach out to The Guardian as she and I are on friendly terms.” Hilda smoothed down her dress.

Apple Core looked at her quizzically. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“She has let the children read one of my spells.” Hilda said with a hint of pride.

WestWorld never allowed a spell to be voluntarily brought into their corner of Fandom.

“Your spell has been removed and cast out of WestWorld. The Guardian has discovered that you are mutuals with The Dark One, and therefore are guilty by association. In fact, all three of you are now on The Guardian’s blacklist.”

Glinda was returning with the sustenance for the visitor and heard the last part of the statement; her voice held an edge when she spoke.

“What are you talking about? I was never mutuals with The Dark One, and Zelma broke ties with her months ago! Hilda has maintained ties with The Dark One, but in name only!”

“This has become so much more than a push to banish The Dark One. And I fear now, even if she leaves, the damage has been done. Deep damage,” Apple Core said cryptically.

Her eyes fell to her bowl and the glass of water; she greedily licked her lips. “The best thing to do … frankly, the only thing … is to deflect The Guardian’s anger and ire back where it belongs. On The Dark One.”

“But how?” Glinda sat next to her sisters.

Apple Core slurped her brew directly from the bowl; splashes of broth splattered both Apple Core’s dark cloak and the silver spoon still sitting on the tray. Her eyes rolled over to the three sisters. “I can only point you in the direction, I cannot lead you.”

Hilda spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “The spell we just read; perhaps that will be enough to redirect The Guardian. I can speak to her invisibly. It can’t hurt.”

“Have you ever used the Spell of Invisibility?” Glinda asked, scoffing slightly.

“Hmmmm, once?” Hilda shrugged.

Glinda shook her head impatiently. “I’ll show you!”

Apple Core finished her meal and rose from her chair. “Your secret is safe with me, dearies. Just know, I have seen many battles fought between the two sides, and this one is going to be far worse than the others before. And a word of caution … The Dark One has even more spells; she just isn’t releasing them yet.”

“MORE spells?” Zelma exclaimed, wondering just how many spells The Dark One had. She rose to usher Apple Core to the door where she bid the woman a good evening, watching Apple Core’s dark cloak billow behind her as the outcast made her way back to a hut on the outskirts of Eastwick.

Two Weeks Later

Eastwick

Zelma was sobbing as her sisters tried to comfort her. The battle with WestWorld was intensifying at a rapid rate.

Hilda’s attempts to divert The Guardian had failed: The Guardian had already read every spell The Dark One had cast into the void, which led her to seek out who among the Witches approved of such an abuse of power. The Guardian’s research went back over a year and was helped along by several informants, all invisible and anonymous to her but she had her ideas as to who the people were.

Names filled her ears, portions of spells and those who supported them crossed her desk. Her lips tightened a tad more with every name she came across. The Guardian needed a plan; a plan to end this once and for all.

This was so much bigger than simply The Dark One.

Zelma had wanted to approach The Guardian with news that one of the informants was bogus, and a spy for both sides. But in her haste and eagerness, she forgot to cloak herself with the Spell of Invisibility.

The Guardian’s lips had curved in a slightly cruel smile when the two women faced each other in their crystal balls. The Guardian knew who Zelma was; Zelma found out who the Guardian was. The witch flushed beet red and began to stammer, but The Guardian waved her hands and both balls went dark.

Zelma panicked. She knew about the Blacklist and didn’t want to be on it. Zelma didn’t want to be in WestWorld’s crosshairs at all.

She saw what had happened to Hilda; she saw what they were doing to The Dark One. Zelma immediately wrote a letter of apology to both the Coven and WestWorld. She tried to scrub any traces of her affiliation with The Dark One; but still, they remained.

The Guardian refused to listen to Zelma’s apologies and excuses. Moreover, she was angered by the outpouring of love and support for Zelma. But The Guardian held the upper hand, and she did not hesitate to use it.

Zelma was blacklisted and outed.

Her best friend in the coven had her spell creating abilities revoked.

Yet another friend wrote an appeal to both sides, asking to come to a consensus as to the best way to protect the children. She too was outed and blacklisted.

The only concession made by The Guardian was to restore spell creating privileges and to assure Zelma that she was in good company: Her sisters, along with many others, would be joining her on the list.

Invisibly, Glinda, Hilda, and several others from the coven reached out to The Guardian; they were either ignored, or met with dismissiveness. Hilda’s plea was met with acknowledgement she raised valid points, but The Guardian would not waver on her decision.

This was for the children.

The sisters and their friends were both resigned to and relieved at their fate. Perhaps this Blacklist would be a good thing. They were buoyed by their fellow Witches requesting to be added to the list.

WestWorld and Eastwick rarely interacted; another layer of separation may be the best thing.

WestWorld

The Guardian’s head was in her hands, her fingers splayed across her face. Everything was going to hell in a handbasket, so quickly.

Too quickly.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

The Guardian had started her crusade with one mission in mind: banishment of The Dark One. But that hussy hadn’t left; she had barricaded herself inside of her home after releasing hundreds of spells into the Void. For days on end, all that crossed anyone’s path were dark, potentially triggering spells. The Guardian was truly puzzled how one witch could have so.many.spells. just waiting to be cast. And for the Commoner’s love at that; for the King … The Guardian could see that.

At least it was over.

Then began the influx of invisible, anonymous visitors. The Guardian knew they weren’t all witches, at least in the beginning. The Spell of Invisibility was available to all the citizens of Fandom.

Hour upon hour, The Guardian heard words of support and encouragement; tales of trauma; grateful sobs … all from people with no names or faces.

The Guardian knew she was doing the right thing; she and her Army were protecting those who were defenseless. The Dark One was simply the tip of the iceberg. All the dark spells had to go, and the ones who wrote them had to be outed, at the very least.

A new plan formulated in her mind, and her generals agreed with it.

The Blacklist would include the witch’s names, their addresses, and a list of the offensive spells.

And that is when the others began to visit.

They came while The Guardian slept; they came while she was preparing her meals. One came while she was bathing. All told her she was self-serving, trying to draw attention to herself and WestWorld.

That her plan of the Blacklist was simply telling the children where to go.

That they too were traumatized, and this is how they chose to cope.

The others told her they warned the children not to read their spells because the words they spoke were not for young eyes.

They told her to reach out to the people being put on the list, to walk in their shoes for a day or so.

The Guardian’s brain felt as if it were about to explode from too many voices and too much information.

She argued that she had reached out to the Witches; they had blocked their portals to her.

The Witches said that was an untruth.

The Guardian said she was doing what was best: Providing the children with the witches’ addresses and providing them access to their portals was to protect the children and survivors.

The Witches countered The Guardian was readying her Army to attack them. The children had already used their invisibility and anonymity to bully them to the point of encouraging the witches to commit suicide.

The Guardian said she was making Fandom a safe and nurturing environment for all.

The Witches scoffed at that, arguing that was why they lived in Eastwick and the children lived in WestWorld. It was neither safe nor healthy for either side to interact with each other.

It was all too much; this is not what was supposed to happen. Despite what it looked like, she was not looking to start a war.

But one was underway.

And to make everything even worse, The Dark One was casting spells again.

With a slightly trembling hand, she reached for her glass of water as she popped an aspirin in her mouth. The knock on her portal startled her; water sloshed from the glass and onto her frock.

She raised her head as the witch stepped over the threshold. It was Hilda.

A smile on her face, but a serious look in her eyes, Hilda sat uninvited at the table with The Guardian.

“We need to talk.”

Tagging: @sirbeepsalot @jared2612 @ao719 @burnsoslow @bbrandy2002 @ofpixelsandscribbles @debramcg1106 @marietrinmimi @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @texaskitten30 @glaimtruelovealways @indiacater @forthebrokenheartedthings @kingliam2019 @bebepac @zaffrenotes @liyanin @liamxs-world @choiceslife @ac27dj @the-soot-sprite @gnatbrain @anotherbeingsworld @atha68 @hopelessromanticmonie @amandablink @mom2000aggie @cmestrella @iaminlovewithtrr @shewillreadyou @starrystarrytrouble @liamrhysstalker2020 @alyssalauren @queenrileyrose @ladyangel70 @yourmajesty09 @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @lodberg @charlotteg234 @sweatyrysconnoisseur @mainstreetreader @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @jessiembruno @darley1101 @txemrn @tessa-liam @phoenixrising308 @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @thegreentwin

#dcbbw writes #dug in the vault #for this one #kinda choices

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levi-lover · 4 years

Text

Learning Part: I

W/C: 915

T/W: some light dirty words but overall this is fluff with a dash of angst

A/N: This was supposed to end up as smut but spoiler it’s not. Levi isn’t the only touch starved person out there so I’m trying to fill the cuddle void by writing fan fiction. I’m planning on writing a pt 2 but smuttier so stay tuned ! (Also this is based in the canon universe)

When your relationship with Levi began, he was awkward around the subjects of sex and intimacy. It took a few weeks of casual conversation about it until he told you he was a virgin. It came out while he was spending the night at your place. He was slightly embarrassed but you didn’t mind. “I don’t believe in virginity, I think it’s kinda silly.” You told him. He sighed in relief. A few days later, you guys had sex for the first time, it was like heaven to Levi, the feeling of his cock inside of your body, how you moaned and squirmed underneath him. Over time sex became another physical activity for him but he was never able to fully understand intimacy. You always initiated the tender moments of your relationship, Levi didn’t mind. However, there was one day when he tried to start it. You both were cuddling on the couch and he asked if you could touch your face and then began patting your forehead and cheeks. You let out a chuckle, “What are you doing?” you asked. Levi was offended, “Tsk, I’m being romantic.”

You smiled and praised his effort but then showed him the proper way to caress your lover’s face. You started by running your fingertips along the side of Levi’s face, you grazed his strong jawline and etched small circles around his tender face until your fingers were pressed against his plump bottom lip. Your thumb carefully rubbed against his slightly chapped lips. He let out a small sigh and closed his eyes. Levi was intoxicated by your touch. He had spent years thinking about sex and the animal action of shoving yourself into someone but he didn’t know intimacy could feel this good. As your hand traced the sharp bridge of his nose, he could feel himself letting go. It was terrifying for him. He had worked so hard his entire life to stay in control, to always be on guard so allowing himself these few moments of bliss felt wrong. He felt unworthy, how could he enjoy these small moments when so many people were suffering.

You noticed how his brow was becoming tense and you began to tap his forehead and eyebrows in a gentle manner. You paid extra attention to the scar on his forehead, drawing out small lines around the darkened flesh. Slowly the tension began to dissipate, your right hand reached for his eyelid and you began to stroke the delicate skin, you were so close you could see the small veins peeking through the translucent flesh. You had a perfect view of the slight flutter of his dark eyelashes. Your left hand reached for his hairline, your fingers ran through the thick, black locks, your fingernails softly scratched at his scalp. Levi’s body began to melt into the fabric of the couch. You pressed a small kiss to his nose and continued to stroke his face.

“How does that feel?” You asked dangerously low as if any higher pitch would have broken your space.

Levi stayed quiet, he reached for your waist and pulled you closer to him. He wanted to make sure you were actually there and not simply a figment of his imagination. Finally, he whispered, “This feels...okay.”

Of course, this felt more than okay to Levi. Your touch was the embodiment of heaven to him, it was the only consistent thing he could rely on in this world. Your touch had the power to make him forget about everyone he’s lost, everyone he could no longer remember no matter how hard he tried, it made him forget about the pressure of being humanity’s stronger soldier. Your touch made him feel like a man, a very loved man. He didn’t know how to express all of that, it was too much for him to bear. Instead, he opened his gray eyes, hazy with relaxation, and began to gently touch your temple. He drew small circles with his calloused fingertips. He gave you a small smile, “so is it more like this?”

It was your turn to close your eyes and melted into Levi’s touch as he emulated your earlier actions. You chuckled, “Yeah, something like that.”

Levi’s breath was deep and slow, you began to match his rhythm. As Levi started to explore your face, you pressed your hand over his heart, the feeling of his firm and steady heartbeat brought a wave of calmness over you. You grasped onto his shirt and pulled him even closer to him, your nose was basically touching his cheek now. Levi’s hands were in your hair, lightly tugging at your strands. You lifted your head slightly and pressed your lips to his jawline and planted small kisses until you reached his earlobe. Levi’s breath became jagged as you kissed the soft skin of his ear, in one breath you muttered the words. “I love you.”

Levi’s breath stopped for a second before he pulled you closer to his cheek, his arms firmly wrapped around you. He held you tightly for a moment and then kissed your forehead and whispered, “I love you too” into your skin.

The sun in the room was starting to fade but you both stayed on the couch, intertwined and learning the geography of each other’s face. Secretly hoping to remember every crevice, mole, scar, and bump just in case it got taken away by the cruel world you both called home.

#levi ackerman #levi fluff #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x reader fluff #levi aot #snk #levi snk #levi ackerman fic #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman aot #levi lover fic #aot fic #levi angst #levi ackerman is sexy #canon aot

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lemontwst · 4 years

Text

nessun dorma | 00

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: 〝 He laughed. My darling, you will never be unloved by me. You are too well tangled in my soul. 〞

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: harem x m/f!reader - the reader is gender neutral in this prologue.

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: cyoa + smut

"Are we there yet—?"

You huff, your footsteps obnoxiously heavy as you walk through the grass. Crickets and ladybugs move out of the way, annoyed by your ungraceful waddling. A moth rests on your companion's back and you lazily swat it away.

Mira gives you an exasperated look from over his shoulder, his emerald eyes flickering like there's fire inside them, "It hasn't even been ten steps since the last time you asked." he turns his head away, ignoring you when you stick your tongue out at him.

You can't help being tired after trudging behind him barefoot for what feels like hours with absolutely no indication as to where you're going. Your feet hurt, the damp summer heat of the evening is starting to let up but you're still hot and sweaty and, now that you think about it, maybe a little bit peckish too.

"Mira…"

He turns his head immediately, worried about how feeble you sound, and regards you with a stare most people would find intimidating.

His eyes are so peculiar. Like green gems that are constantly glowing. His pupils are slitted like a snake's and you've seen them shrink with displeasure and enlarge with curiosity and affection.

… His pupils are always large when he looks at you, even now as he patiently waits for your next complaint.

"I'm tired and my feet are starting to hurt… can't you at least tell me where we're going?"

This makes him stop in his tracks so abruptly you bump against his back.

"Oof—"

Before you can bring your hands up to your tender nose, Mira is cradling your face and tilting it up, clawed hands resting on your skin gently, like you're made of glass.

His face is a dispassionate mask as he checks on you, but you know him well enough to recognize the taut apprehension on his features. His thumb brushes against your cheek and your heart gives a little flutter.

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" he sighs, sounding like a parent scolding his reckless child.

He slowly lets go of your face, his fingers lingering for as long as they can like they always do whenever he touches you, as if pulling away is physically painful to him. Then he kneels in front of you like he's about to propose and grabs one of your feet, forcing you to balance on one leg like a flamingo.

He brushes away the green stains of grass from your skin with his thumb, checking for scratches and blisters, looking visibly relieved when he doesn't find any.

"You humans are so fragile."

You scoff at that. Not everyone can be as perfectly impassible as him. Seriously, you've been walking under the sun all evening and Mira still manages to look like he's ready for the royal ball. His raven hair falls perfectly around his boyish features, and his face is the color of marble and completely void of any sign of exhaustion unlike your sweaty, flushed one.

… Damn his superior fae genes.

"You didn't answer my question! Again!" You pout and grab one of his horns, giving his head a little shake.

Mira chuckles—a low sound in the back of his throat—and swats your hand away, but when he looks up at you, a snarky reply on the tip of his tongue, his eyes widen and he freezes in place, starstruck.

…

"... Don't do that." He slowly stands up, and since he pretty much towers over you, your hand is naturally forced to let go of him. You completely miss the slight shiver that runs through him when your palm brushes hard against the smooth, black bone of his horn.

"What?" You tilt your head and blink as he avoids your eyes. Did you hurt him when you grabbed him? That's new, he usually doesn't mind—

"That face." He mutters, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the underbrush ahead.

…

Oh.

A faint smirk makes your lips quiver, but you swiftly adjust your expression. You cup his face much like he did a few seconds before and force him to look at you, suppressing a laugh at how utterly startled he looks.

"You mean this face?" Your long lashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips curve into a small pout.

Mira blinks once, twice—his features are lax like he's in a daze and that somehow makes him look even more handsome than usual, brow crinkled and lips parted slightly. His slitted pupils trace a slow path from your eyes to your lips. You make a kissy face at him and you think you see him blush, but you can't tell for certain because he hastily pulls your hands off him and turns away.

"You… you're tired, aren't you? I can carry you the rest of the way."

You can't help but chuckle at how awkward he sounds and how stiff his shoulders look, but you decide to have mercy on him and obediently climb onto his back when he leans down to give you easier access. He often carries you like this when you get tired from playing, lifting you like you weigh nothing in a way that makes you swoon. He used to do it princess style, but being carried like that was pretty damn embarrassing so you compromised by going with piggybacks instead.

“My hero.” you smile and nuzzle your cheek against his soft hair—you don’t need to see his face to know that he looks pleased.

…

...

“...So where are we going?”

“Deerlet—” Mira groans, still using his affectionate nickname for you even though you're really testing his patience today; you just laugh and kick your legs in response, profoundly amused by his discomfort. The silvery bells of your delighted voice join the varied sounds of the fairy woods; a small woodpecker flees from tree to tree right above you, startled by your giggles and you glance at it with an apologetic smile on your face.

Deerlet—it's what he called you the first time you met him, 'because you looked like a frightened baby deer'.

You believe him, considering how terrified you were after getting lost in this same forest all those years ago. You must have gone pale as a ghost when you saw him come out from behind a tree, dressed in black from head to toe with horns that looked like a demon's. He often forgets to mention that he looked just as surprised as you—you can't imagine he expected to find a human child so deep in the fairy forest.

Unbeknownst to you, in your panicked stumbling you had almost reached the thick wall of thorny vines that separates your village's side of the forest from the Valley of Thorns, somehow ending up on the opposite side of where you had wanted to go.

You’d completely filled out your miracle bingo card by not only finding another person in the woods, but a fae who knew how to get you back to your village and who offered to help you without asking for anything in return.

There was no particular reason why he helped you, Mira had once told you as you laid on the grass together and looked at the stars—he just found you pitiful and had an inkling you would have pestered and chased him around until he actually agreed to show you the way home. He was right, of course. Scary fae or not, you would have risked being hurt by a weird-looking stranger rather than being left all alone in the woods any day of the week.

And you were glad you met him, as he became your closest confidant and best friend after that day, always waiting for you to join him at the edge of the forest but never coming out of the treeline. He was very adamant about never visiting your village, no matter how much you begged him to come play at your house. It seemed like he didn't particularly care for humans, with you as the only exception. He didn't wish to meet your parents nor your other friends (he actually got visibly upset if you mentioned being friends with people other than him, so you quickly learned not to bring that up).

Even though Mira makes you feel loved and cared for like no one ever did before, he still hides so many things from you—you don't even know his surname, for one. You think he might come from the Valley of Thorns but he never gives you a straight answer when you ask him about it, and sometimes he just… disappears for weeks without telling you, and you never find out where he went.

You've learned to deal with all his oddities over the years, so you didn't question him today when he told you he wanted to give you an early birthday present before dragging you this deep into the woods.

He warned you he wouldn't be able to celebrate your sixteenth birthday with you tomorrow, so you agreed to spend time with him today to make up for it.

Shaking yourself out of some oddly nostalgic thoughts, you nuzzle the top of his head again and sigh, mentally kicking yourself for thinking about his secrets and making yourself sad. You can't help but smile in his hair when his hands grip the back of your thighs a little harder, a gesture most people would consider too intimate to be just friendly, almost as if he sensed your doubts and wanted to push them away.

Despite everything, you still trust Mira with every fiber of your being. That's why the macabre words he speaks next don't bother you as they would had he been anyone else.

"We're going to a place where no one will ever find you…" He trails off, his voice going back to an arrogant monotone. He might act all cool and aloof but you know he's thinking about making you happy when he picks up the pace, his long legs carrying him much faster now that he doesn't have to worry about you keeping up with him.

"... so that I can kill you without anyone knowing."

You don't care enough about your surroundings to notice how the forest goes eerily quiet. Quiet, like a watercolor painting with the colors suddenly fading to grey. The birds stop singing, the woodpecker whose chirps accompanied your banter stops talking, and the cicadas stop crying.

There's just your soft breathing lingering in the air and the light sound of Mira's footsteps against the grass.

"Yeah okay, Tsunotaro," You stifle a yawn, briefly wondering if you'll be able to take a power nap before you get to wherever Mira is taking you, "You could have told me that before we left. I didn't even get the chance to write my will."

Mira chuckles and suddenly the forest is alive again. The gentle summer wind rustles the leaves above you and caresses your face, flycatchers and wood doves sing happy little tunes and fat bumblebees buzz from flower to flower blissfully. Nature is joyous and alive all around you and it makes you even more eager to find out what Mira has in store for you.

—

You arrive at a clearing in the woods just as the twilight starts giving way to the night. The edge of the sky is a brilliant orange that fades to purple and then to blue, a few diamond-like dots already freckling the sky like someone is skillfully placing them with the tip of a brush.

But you've seen this masterpiece of a sky before, it's what's below that makes your jaw drop as Mira slowly comes to a halt.

A bed of black roses stretches as far as your eyes can see, gently swaying in the breeze, petals and leaves twinkling with sparks of fairy dust. The view looks almost unreal, like a picture from a fairytale book and you strain your eyes trying to take it all in. You think you've been to this place with Mira before, but the roses definitely weren't there last time.

"Mira—!" You sound almost scandalized as you climb down his back as fast as your limbs allow you. "Did you—did you plant all of these?!" You take a few steps towards the flowers, the grass satisfyingly wet under your feet, then turn back to face Mira with eyes the size of plates.

…

You think you're seeing things when Mira smiles. It's a goddamn genuine, happy smile. You can count the times you've seen him grin like this on the fingers of one hand. His smiles are usually just… arrogant quirks of the lips, but this? You could stare at his face forever.

"Well, I don't know if you can technically consider it planting if it's done with magic, but yes, I did."

Magic. Of course, Mira is stupidly good at magic (and pretty much everything else, you hate to admit), but this—you struggle to make a single flower grow, let alone bloom. You can't imagine that this was an easy task for a fairy as young as him.

"How long did this take you…?"

He actually seems to get a bit shy at that.

"... A couple of weeks. I could have done it faster but finding the time to come here was not… easy."

Two weeks. Your heart soars in your chest. He doesn't always have the time to play with you—he confessed to you he rarely has time for himself at all—and yet… and yet he still did all of this for you, on top of coming to see you as often as he could because he knew you were waiting for him. Two weeks.

"Oh, Mira…" You close the distance between the two of you and throw your arms around his neck, giggling at how quickly he hugs back, lifting you off the ground with his strong arms around your waist.

"Thank you, I love you!" You place a quick kiss on his cheek, not thinking much about what you're saying because you're so excited. It's not like you don't mean it, but you are a naturally affectionate and bright person, and the words ‘I love you’ fall easily out of your mouth when you're talking to your friends and family. They all accept your feelings graciously, except for Mira who always seems to falter whenever you say it to him.

You hear his breath hitch and suddenly his hold on you is so much tighter—so tight it almost hurts, but being in his arms always makes you feel oddly safe, even when he straight up squeezes you.

"I love you too, I want you to be happy for all eternity." He lowers you so your feet touch the ground but keeps you pressed against him, face buried in your neck.

"That's impossible, silly… but I am always happy when I'm with you." You run your fingers through his hair, then follow the line of a horn with your fingertips, making him shiver against you.

"...Then it doesn't have to be impossible." Mira raises his head and you stop breathing. The tips of your noses almost touch, his impossibly green eyes burning into yours with so much determination you almost take a step back, overwhelmed by how much emotion he's showing.

"Uhm...what?—" He's so close. His eyes suddenly dart to your lips and you think your heart might just collapse. But then he sighs, his warm breath hitting your lips, and pulls away, looking behind you at the vast bed of night-colored flowers.

"Nevermind. Let's go watch the stars."

You think you got whiplash by how fast he changed the subject

"Wait, what? You want to lay down on a bed of roses? Mira, those usually have thorns."

Mira ignores you in favor of stepping into the flowers. He picks one up in a fluid motion that makes you jealous at how graceful he always is, then hands it to you. You get closer to inspect the flower, and your eyebrows raise in a surprised arch when you realize the stem is completely smooth apart from a few leaves.

"I grew them without thorns," Mira suddenly glares at the flower like it's slighted him, "I couldn't have you pricking yourself on my gift. I would have to burn this entire meadow to cinders if that happened."

… You barely keep yourself from rolling your eyes. He’s such a mother hen. He probably worries about your safety more than your own mother!

…

But you have to admit it's also a little bit endearing, in a… 'play croquet with a helmet on and pillows tied to your limbs' kind of overprotective way.

"Right, let's hope I don't give myself a papercut with the leaves then."

Mira looks absolutely horrified.

"Mira no—"

—

Stargazing with him is always so relaxing. His voice is smooth and pleasant and you could listen to him talk about the constellations forever, his knowledge of the night sky as extensive as his magical prowess.

When you turn your head and see him lying there on a bed of roses, eyes to the sky as he gives you a long tirade about some promiscuous god turning his lover into a bear, you find him more beautiful than you've ever seen him.

… He's so clearly not human that it makes your chest tighten with longing.

He looks about the same age as you, but while your body has changed and developed these past few years, Mira hasn't changed a smidge since your first meeting. You know he's much older than you… but he’s never told you his exact age, so you've always quietly wondered.

He turns to you when he notices you're not listening, and when he catches your forlorn expression the words die in his throat.

He stares at you for a long time, then turns his body towards you and lifts himself up on his elbow, looking down at you with blazing emerald eyes as he rests his head on one hand.

He smells like cherries and roses, it's a familiar smell that makes your chest feel all warm and fuzzy.

"... Can I ask you something?"

Your brow crinkles at that. He's usually too arrogant to ever be afraid to say what he wants to say, but now he looks almost… anxious? Insecure? It's an expression you've never seen on him and you find it hard to describe.

"If you… ceased to be human..." It might be because it's nighttime, but his eyes seem to be glowing like campfires.

"If—hypothetically speaking—you could live for centuries like me… would you..." He pauses, then looks away with a frown. It takes him a few seconds to collect himself, but when he finally speaks again he sounds much softer, almost vulnerable.

"(y/n)..." The way he says your name makes you shiver. You hear it so rarely from his lips since he usually prefers to call you Deerlet that every time he says it you find yourself unable to speak.

He cups your cheek and admires your features, slowly brushing his thumb against your soft skin.

You're so soft compared to him. The emotion in his eyes is something akin to devotion, but more intense.

So beautiful, so fleeting.

"Would you stay with me forever...?" he mutters softly. His bright eyes roam over you, seeming to drink you in, as if to assure himself that you’re actually there with him.

...

You frown at the strange question.

Why does he look so sad…? Did something happen while he was away? Worry pools in your ribcage, your hands compelled to reach out and touch him as if he cast a spell on you.

… But you don't, because he's still waiting for an answer.

—

❥ Would you choose to live forever if it meant staying with Mira for the rest of your eternity?

⟶ Yes. Of course you would. Mira is the most precious existence in your life. You often fantasize about being young forever with him, to never grow old, to be held gently in his arms until the end of time. Knowing that this will never happen is enough to break your heart in two.

⟶ No. It’s not like you don’t love Mira, but living forever would be too much. How could you stand to watch as everyone you love slowly leaves you behind? How could you survive that kind of cold, lonely life? You can’t depend on just one person alone forever. It’s time to go home now, your parents are waiting for you.

vote here | what is this?

❥ taglist: @mirrorsandpacts @stormweaver13 @bobaryn @justsomepersons @mokkeguts @maiieus @trashmomarcya @dat-bi-bitch @lem-thebeast @mythrule @hfhgjgji @zzz-sleeplessy-soft-xxx @anicious @kae-draws-sometimes @cogitover @sammy6667 @shrimp-heads @twistedmintcandy @gyghii @akelois @maknae-lenna @chiefcashgianthero @carasketch @mayorkoopbob @linseyz @gardenondreams @andromeda-gay @equus-meretrix @the-king-of-blue @spacebabesupernova @kagicannotsee @doraconia @hello-starlight @yandere-romanticaa @skyboo @uwu-dreams @kay8675 @meltyans @drawbud @msyaoigodkanna @roseinbloom02 @hoodiedevil @ikemenisruiningme @miiluka @hello-selene94 @moondustinhislungs @nosochek-3o @epher-posts @monoshii-wasu @rosavine @bitch-let-me-die @raychel @pumpkiethepie @hypmicluvbot @theallpowerfulrosami @mmquinno @mayunnaise21 @ruvelise

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst #nessun dorma

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last-operator-standing · 4 years

Text

Toll of the Bell

Chapter 1 - Ashes to Ashes

> Ao3

> Chapter 2 (tumblr)

Summary: What now? He could roll over and accept the fate thrust upon him and die as Adler intended. Starting a new life away from it all couldn't be that bad either. Or…

Or he could finish the mission.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Violence, blood & injuries, anxiety

Words: 2k

A/N: This follows the post-ending for my Bell. For the sake of the story, Bell saved Lazar and was forced to leave Park behind, but she still lived. Her explanation will appear in ch 2 ;u; Originally I wasn’t gonna share this but uhhhh here we are! I wasn’t overly happy with the ending of this chapter, but c’est la vie, friends. ;u;

"I'm sorry it turned out this way."

Why? When he tries to speak there's only a pathetic gurgle as the blood spills past his lips.

"I hope you understand."

I don't! Why? I told you the truth! His chest feels tight, like it's being crushed under an invisible force. Was it always this hard to breathe? To think? He can't be sure anymore. So why?! Why..? His fingers are stained in crimson when he lifts his hand from his chest. Why did you shoot me? The words won’t come out. Trembling, his arm falls back to his side, unable to hold it up any longer.

��"It was never personal, Bell."

There's a pressure in Bell's right hand as Adler presses something into his palm. His fingers twitch against cool metal - his gun? - but he doesn't have the strength to lift it. He can only stare up at the soft blue sky as his chest burns and he dyes the ground red.

"It wasn't meant to be like this."

I trusted you. Then again, he also trusted Arash Kadivar. Look where that got me. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

There's a darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision. Panic builds and it only makes the desperate burning in his lungs worse. He struggles to force air past the fluid. A terrible bubbling resonates in his chest and Bell idly wonders if he'll drown in his own blood before he bleeds out. I bet this makes you happy. Adler's face slides into view when he kneels beside Bell: His features are blurry and the colors somehow don't feel right. But he's not smiling. He almost looks.. sad.

A hand slides against Bell's cheek, pressing gently, tilting his head a bit to the right and allowing him a clearer view of his would-be murderer. It's easier now to see how Adler's face is pinched downwards in a grimace. Adler stares down at his dying protégé just as much as he stares back, once vibrant emerald eyes now dull and swimming with uncertainty and betrayal as he teeters on the edge of oblivion.

Bell wishes he had something else to dwell on in his final moments. Something that was his and not the manufactured memories pounded into his head by Adler and his trigger phrase. He tries to think back to before the CIA, before MK-Ultra, before Perseus. All he comes up with is Adler's smug smile as he wakes him in Vietnam. Fake. How Sims and he recovered the Russian comms log during Operation Fracture Jaw. Fake. Fending off the VC attack after his bird is knocked from the sky. All of it, fake.

The anguish of knowing there's nothing left of him- the real him- brings a burning to his eyes. Who am I? Bell doesn't realize he's crying until a gloved thumb brushes a tear from his cheek.

"Hey."

Bell's cold. The jacket does nothing to keep him warm. His limbs feel impossibly heavy. Any trail of thought he has slips between his fingers before he has time to complete it. No matter how much he blinks the world stays blurry and he's losing the energy to keep his eyes open. He tries to focus on Adler's face but he's nothing more than a tan smudge against a blue sky.

Bell's so, so tired...

"You did good, kid."

Deep down Bell knew it was always going to end like this. He was never truly part of the team. That was apparent in the way Sims refused to acknowledge him (didn't their time together in Vietnam mean anything?) or in the pitying look Mason would cast his way when he thought Bell wasn't looking (like he somehow understood..)

Above all he knew from the way Hudson spoke about him.

Bell? Don't get me started...

Are you taking him into the KGB with you? Are you crazy ?

If we can't control the asset, we end the asset.

Bell's eyes flutter close and they don't open again. The warmth at his side, Adler's warmth, is only there a moment longer before it pulls away and is gone, leaving Bell alone with only the abyss.

Dying isn't what Bell ever imagined it to be. He feels light, like he's floating amongst the clouds. The coldness has long since seeped away to a numbness and he forgot about the hard concrete below him. Bell can't hear anything, can't feel anything. The abyss swallows him whole. He bathes in its darkness and floats in its silence, drifting through oblivion.

Bell doesn't expect to ever open his eyes again. Without medical intervention, there was no logical way he would survive the bullet in his chest. This makes it all the more jarring when he's dragged into consciousness. He simply lays there at first, the numbness creeping back in and replacing the blissful void of nothingness he felt while unconscious.

It's dark when he finally musters the energy to squint open his eyes. Gone is the calm cliffside in which Adler shot him at. Instead, he's in an unfamiliar room with faded green walls and blankets around him that are far too stiff and cause his aching body to itch . There's railings on either side of him, the kind you'd find on a hospital bed or to prevent children from rolling off the side at night. Voices resonate just behind a closed door. They're hushed and aggressive but Bell can't make out what they're saying. When they fall silent the light beneath the door flicks off and he's left with only a digital clock for illumination.

Bell drifts in and out of awareness. He can't keep track of the passing time. On one occasion there's movement at his bedside and voices filling his ears.

"..ell? B…?"

"Is.. wake..?"

"Damn.. all, he… again.."

"Bell?"

When he looks up, their face is too blurry to make out. Someone joins them at his side, but they are too fuzzy to see as well. Their voices sound like they're speaking underwater; too far and too jumbled to make out. Moments later he's unconscious once more.

It's night again once Bell is able to stay awake properly. He feels heavy but warm and the room spins when he tries to look around. It's not until he tries to raise a hand to calm the spinning that he realizes something is wrong. He only manages to lift his arm a few inches before something stops him. Confused, he tries tugging a few times. A metallic jingle fills his ears. Looking over confirms his suspicions: He's handcuffed to the railing. Swallowing down the building panic, Bell tries the other arm only to find it just as restrained to the opposite railing.

He tries to keep calm. He really does. But it's all too much for him; he should be dead, he knows that. Not chained up inside an unfamiliar room with no idea how or when he got here, or who brought him here in the first place. A memory forces itself to the front of his mind.

Bell woke up to voices. "I gotta admit," the first voice, American, rumbled, drawing his attention. It took some effort but Bell managed to lull his head towards the speaker. Two individuals peered down at him. "I didn't expect him to recover so quickly." His limbs were restrained, preventing any movement. "He's a resilient one," the second person agreed. Bell did his best to hold back his fear and anxiety. This certainly wasn't Perseus nor the KGB, which only meant he was now in the hands of the enemy. He wouldn't let them break him.

Not again. Bell fights against his restraints as hysteria begins to take hold. I can't do this again. Losing his mind once was too much; no way he could withstand being reset a second time. A rapid beep-beep-beep fills his ears but the Russian is too fixated on freeing himself to pay it much attention. A light flips on beneath the door, encouraging him to struggle all the more.

"Bell!" The door flings open. There's hands on his shoulders. "Bell, you're safe!" He thrashes. The light flicks on. "What's going on?" The hands leave Bell's shoulders and move to the sides of his head, forcing him to turn wide-eyed toward a familiar face. "Bell, hey, calm down," Lazar sooths.

Bell falls still from exhaustion. His chest heaves with each rapid breath. Eyes wide, he stares between Lazar at his side and Park, who stands tense at the door.

"Bell-"

"Lazar, what's going on-"

"Park, not now-"

"I knew we couldn't trust him."

"Park, please! You're not helping." The MI6 agent scoffs but relents, leaving Lazar alone with Bell.

Bell trembles with a fear like he's never felt before. "Bell," Lazar tries again with a weak smile. "It's alright. You're safe. We're at an MI6 safehouse. I'm, uh… sorry. About the cuffs. It's the only way Park would agree.."

"How..?" Bell only manages a croak, throat tight.

"Call it a hunch," Lazar offered. "I knew something was off with Adler. Followed you guys. Got there after everything already went down. We tried to patch you up the best we could with the equipment we have here. You've been out for a few days." Bell calms himself and listens intently. The exhaustion is clear on the Russian's face.

"I just.. I feel like I owe you, Bell. You saved my life back in Cuba." Lazar sighs softly. "Park is.. weary. She thinks you'll turn on us now that you've, well," he motions awkward towards Bell. "Now that you've begun to break your programming."

Lazar's face turns serious when he stares into Bell's eyes. "I didn't think it was fair to cut you out of the picture before you had the choice to decide who you really are."

The choice to decide who I really am...

The distress must be noticeable on Bell's face because Lazar suddenly lightens up with a smile and gentle squeeze to his shoulder. "Hey, it's alright. It'll take time, but I'm sure you'll figure it out. You chose to tell the truth, you can't be all that bad, eh?"

Bell's head is a hurricane of emotion despite Lazar's teasing reassurance. Aside from his meeting with Perseus, the implanted memories, and everything that's happened to him in the past couple months, Bell knew nothing about himself. Am I righteous? Am I a terrorist? Just? Prejudice ? If he's honest with himself.. he was terrified of the truth. It was so much easier to be told who he was, to do what he was told, to put his trust in the team and his life in Adler's hands.

Adler.

"Get some rest." Lazar's voice shakes Bell from his thoughts. "We can talk more tomorrow, sort everything out. Don't worry about Park- she's suspicious but she wouldn't hurt you." Somehow, Bell isn't entirely convinced. He doesn't comment on it.

".. Spasiba, Lazar. For saving me."

Lazar pauses at the door and turns. His surprise turns into another small, genuine smile. "No problem, Bell."

Alone once again in the dark, Bell takes a shaky breath. He doesn't realize he's clenching his hands until he feels the ache. It takes some time but he relaxes the best he can and takes stock of his condition. Head throbbing, chest burning, mind buzzing with uncertainty and raw with emotion, but undeniable alive .

"It's always been for the greater good."

There's a feeling he can't quite shake. It brings apprehension. Bell's not sure what will happen next. Will his would-be rescuers turn him in? Will Adler come back to finish the job? Will I ever get my memory back? Many questions burn in the Russian's head and not many answers come to mind. What now? He could roll over and accept the fate thrust upon him and die as Adler intended. Starting a new life away from it all couldn't be that bad either. Or…

Or he could finish the mission.

Whoever he was before Bell may never know. It doesn't matter; that person is dead. The CIA reinvented him and gave life to 'Bell'. Now he has to live with that. Whether or not they like it they gave him a job. Find Perseus and stop him.

He found Perseus once.

He'd find him again.

#cod cold war #russell adler #cod bell #male bell #bocw #lazar azoulay #helen park #i cannot be stopped #jay if (when) you find this #im not sorry #multichapter #fanfic

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baepsaetan · 3 years

Text

Novocaine Enough | Yoonseok | Part 3

Amazing banner credit to @joonscore

Part 1 -> Part 2

Pairing: Yoongi x Hoseok

Wordcount: 8k

Genre: Exes to lovers, angst, smut

Rating: 18+

Summary: Four years later, and Yoongi is still an itch under his skin. Hoseok is trying to move on, from his past life and his past love, but there are some voids that can’t be filled. Some needs that can’t be met. And when Hoseok enters a club and hears the music of the man he left so long ago, he realizes that some addictions can’t be healed by anything as simple as time.

Warnings: Swearing; implied, mentioned and past drug use/abuse (cocaine, ecstasy, weed, alcohol); past overdosing; mutually unhealthy relationship dynamic; explicit (kinda angry) sex, including biting, oral, gagging, rimming, edging, marking, barebacking, thigh riding.

Ao3 Link: here

A/N: Part three! Which I totally forgot to post before now, lol. Not sure if anyone hasn’t seen this on Ao3 already, but if ya haven’t, feel free to give a like. :)

They collide a little too hard, a little too combatively, and Hoseok's lips tingle when they find Yoongi's. He embraces the pain, even as his arms are wrapping around the other man, caging him in like he's afraid Yoongi's going to suddenly disappear. It's a little awkward, but Yoongi squirms in his embrace, gets himself into a better position, and then they're actually kissing.

This is a moment when they both freeze, as if the reality of what they're doing has suddenly crashed into them. Hoseok's muscles lock, and he's abruptly in the back of his mind, wondering if this is the right thing, doubting it is, knowing it isn't, and maybe he shouldn't –

Yoongi's tongue parts his lips and the acrid taste of smoke and beer slams him back into the moment. Hoseok gasps, released, and his arms tighten spasmodically, a bodily rejection of his mind. Yoongi tastes like he remembers, and this is suddenly easy, natural, and the worry dies, smothered beneath the nostalgia slipping across his tongue. Warmth floods his face, and he can't help but dig the tips of his fingers into Yoongi's shoulders, proving to himself that the man is there.

His eyes are closed and the reddish hues dart under his eyelids, flurrying in time with his spiked heart rate. Yoongi is the first to pull away, but only to nip at the edge of Hoseok's lip and then move lower, kissing along the length of his jaw with just a touch of teeth. The fluttery pressure lasts for only a moment, and then the other man is kissing him again. This time Hoseok gravitates into the contact, leans even further until his weight is pushing Yoongi back.

With a low hum that Hoseok can feel resounding through his own mouth, Yoongi allows himself to be shifted backwards until he's laid out on the couch. They break contact long enough for Yoongi to swing his legs up, and Hoseok straddles his hips, knees pushing comfortably into the cushions. He pauses, then, to stare down at the man under him.

Yoongi's skin is unusually flushed, his lips already swollen from their fierce contact. It's his eyes that catch Hoseok, though, deep and dark and so demanding they rip a sense of urgency from somewhere at the base of Hoseok's throat. His hand impulsively rises to cup Yoongi's face – and Yoongi turns away, just a little, avoiding the touch. It leaves an emptiness heavy in the pads of Hoseok's fingers, an ache in his heart, and he has to drive the feeling out somehow.

Tracing his hand down Yoongi's neck is almost enough, and when Hoseok hunches over and presses kisses into the other man's collarbone, it gets even better. Burying his face into the crook of the man’s neck and inhaling the scent of his citrusy cologne overwhelms Hoseok’s senses, drowning the bitterness in a wave of comfort and desire. Yoongi's breath is a harsh pant, and his voice is harsh, too, when he insists, "Come on."

Hoseok is abruptly aware of the fact that he's eager to do more. His next kiss lingers on Yoongi's collarbone, and so does the next, and when he moves to Yoongi's throat, Hoseok bites him, a little nip that nonetheless draws a sharp inhale from his partner. He does it for a second time, just to hear the overwhelmed sound again, and Yoongi is quick to oblige him. Relishing the taut groan, he pulls away to admire the man underneath him.

Just for a moment, but Yoongi's eyes, previously drifted closed, snap open and he makes an inquiring huff.

Not quite willing to admit how much he'd love to just stare at the sweat that's beginning to trickle down Yoongi's face, Hoseok smiles. "You mind some marks?"

Yoongi's lip curls, but his gaze is intrigued. "You want to?" Before Hoseok can reply, he snickers, head falling back to bare his neck more fully. "Sure. Why not?"

Hoseok doesn't need to be told twice. (But he does want to ask again, just in case this isn't what it should be, just in case –)

Ignoring that, he dips his head and his lips are soft when he starts sucking on Yoongi's throat. They don't stay that way, not when he increases the pressure, and under him the other man shifts, arches up like he's desperate to close the space between them. Hoseok indulges, grinding down with his groin as his mouth relents for a moment, placing lighter kisses around the area he'd been sucking on. Yoongi bucks his hips, seeking more friction, and Hoseok finds himself grinning, a wolfish expression that doesn't fade even with his softer contact.

He doesn't give Yoongi too much of a break, anyways; before too long he's back, sucking on the abused skin harder than before. It feels good to press his mouth against the other man's neck, to know that he's leaving a mark that nothing but time will scrub away. Yoongi bruises easily and long, Hoseok remembers that, and so for at least the next week he's going to be bearing a sign, a clear flag to anyone who dares to believe Yoongi is anything but taken.

Even if he isn't actually taken.

The thought has heat prickling across the nape of Hoseok's neck, and it takes him a second to realize it's pissed him off. His next nip is sharper and Yoongi hisses in mild protest. He goes mostly ignored, because though Hoseok tries to soften himself, tries to gentle the way his mouth crushes against Yoongi's throat, it's still hard enough to inspire another grunt from the other man.

And yet, for all that Hoseok knows he's actually hurting his partner, Yoongi doesn't make any move to shove him away. Doesn't even voice a protest beyond the first light objection. In fact, he keeps tilting his chin further up, giving Hoseok even more space to work with, and his hands are digging in just above his waistband, anchoring Hoseok with a grip that's on the razor edge of pain. The pressure grounds him and he needs it, needs an anchor against the dull anger that’s trying to flare to life amidst the hollowness in his chest.

It's not until Hoseok bites Yoongi for the umpteenth and an iron tang fills his mouth that he realizes the fire is more out of control than he’d thought.

Immediately he draws back, guilt and blood on his tongue, although the taste isn’t quite strong enough to expunge his surprisingly possessive anger. The skin isn’t broken too badly, just a slightly more pronounced red among the splotches of pink littering Yoongi’s neck, but he can’t make himself look away.

His companion asks without opening his eyes, “Admiring your handiwork?”

Setting his teeth over the impulse to say something breezy – and avoid the truth – he answers honestly. “You’re bleeding a bit.”

Yoongi lazily opens an eye. “Seriously?” His voice is so unfazed it subdues some of the remorse threaded through Hoseok’s ribs; it can’t have hurt too bad if he hadn’t even noticed. “I’m not bleeding on the couch, am I?”

Hoseok dutifully inspects the dribble, barely deserving of the name. “Nah.”

The eye closes. “Good. Bite me too hard again and I’ll bite you back.”

He’s so relieved it makes him flippant. And sharp. “Is that a promise?”

A hoarse laugh, and Yoongi’s hands tighten around his waist. “Only if you want it to be.”

Leaving it there, Hoseok leans back down. Much more gentle, he actually spends more time skimming his lips over the marks, mouthing the tender areas rather than kissing them, let alone biting. It doesn’t last long, though. Energy simmers through his core, an awful agitation that only grows with each taste of sweat, with every low exhale that the man under him makes. Yoongi is also impatient, shoving up Hoseok’s shirt as he runs his fingers along his sides, the warmth of his touch leaving Hoseok shaky with anticipation.

Before too long, he folds to the pressure of that wordless touch. Taking off his shirt is, in the haze of the moment, only slightly nerve-wracking. The dregs of alcohol still in his system help matters, swamping any second thoughts Hoseok might have had and leaving him dizzy and expectant.

Yoongi doesn't whistle at the reveal like Hoseok had, but his eyes are keen with admiration as they skim across Hoseok's upper body. The considering look is back, and after a moment of mute appreciation that leaves Hoseok flushed and simultaneously more relaxed, he commands, "Get off, 'kay? I wanna try something else."

Scrambling to do as bid, he lifts himself off of Yoongi. "Just sit there," Yoongi says, gesturing at the couch as he gets to his feet. Hoseok suffers a pang of disappointed confusion at the lack of immediate attention, but all his companion does is shove the table back further before returning. And then he's settling onto Hoseok. More specifically, he nudges Hoseok's legs open and then sits on his right thigh, his legs nestled on either side.

Automatically Hoseok tenses to support the added weight, and Yoongi's tongue slips across his lower lip as he settles more firmly onto the hard muscles. He rubs against Hoseok's thigh and lets out an approving breath, and Hoseok can already feel himself hardening in a way that marking up his ex hadn’t quite managed. Yoongi notices – of course he does – and his hand drops down to caress Hoseok's free leg, thumb starting near his groin and then dragging down against the leather of his pants. "Didn't I say you should take these off? Too late now, I guess," he comments with a smile that's too pointed to be anything but provoking.

The touch is enough, and the smile is entirely too much. With a grunt, Hoseok grabs Yoongi at the hips, both keeping him steady and pushing him down a little. A second later and he starts to bounce his leg, nothing jarring, just a smooth motion that Yoongi grinds himself against. Flexing his thigh at the same time gets the other man to groan, so Hoseok does it again, and then again, relishing the husky sound and the feeling of Yoongi heavy on his body.

This is – almost – familiar. When Yoongi wraps his arms around Hoseok’s bare shoulders to balance himself, it’s that much closer to what he remembers, but… not quite. Not quite, because the small man doesn’t press his forehead against Hoseok’s. Doesn’t look him in the eyes as he rides him, but looks past him, the pleasure crossing his face a removed and distant thing.

Hoseok’s own pleasure feels disconnected, too. The throbbing from his cock is quickly becoming a heated intensity that radiates through his gut, and his movements become rougher, hips jerking with the need to chase the feeling of Yoongi grinding against him. It’s good, great even, but there’s a desperation in his urgency that he suspects won’t be satisfied by coming.

He’s chasing a peak, and it’s not even the height he wants to hit.

Eyes closing against that knowledge, swallowing back the gritty taste of it, Hoseok is caught off guard when one of Yoongi’s arms drops and his fingers find Hoseok’s nipple. Inhaling through his clenched teeth, his eyes fly open and then widen as the other man lightly twists the sensitive nub.

“Fuck, Yoongs,” he spits, and Yoongi grins like a cat who just spotted some cream.

“Mmm, this still gets you, hey?” his lover asks. Given that Hoseok gasps a moment later, Yoongi’s thumb rolling the stiffening nipple, he hardly needs a reply. He takes that as an answer and his other hand joins the fun, and Hoseok’s taut frame is shortly shaking with the flames being produced by those dexterous fingers. He’s always been overly sensitive in his chest.

He lets himself be pleased that his ex remembers, but nothing more than that.

A particularly callous tweak makes him jerk, his leg jumping hard into Yoongi’s groin, and Yoongi yelps – which, honestly, karma – before biting back the sound and scowling instead. “You dick,” he mutters without heat, but his fingers become even more ruthless as they play with Hoseok’s nipples. That, of course, does absolutely nothing to still Hoseok, and before too long he can’t focus on helping the other man get off on his thigh, his nerves shot through with spastic jolts of pleasure that have him barely able to keep together.

After another probably too hard bounce, Yoongi eases off with a light scoff. “God, you’re as bad as a prep school virgin. Been a bit of a dry spell for you or something?”

It’s true that they used to be able to edge each other a helluva lot longer and more intensely than this, but Hoseok reddens at the implication of that question. And at the nerve of asking it, too. He tries to keep his voice level, but it gets higher as he says, “Is that any business of yours?”

Yoongi looks away, but not before his smug expression crumples. He does a much better job of keeping his tone even, though. He’s always been better than Hobi at that. “Guess not.”

The reminder isn’t totally a mood killer, but it does inject something stiff and uncomfortable into the air. With a hard exhale, Yoongi shakes his head, apparently trying to physically throw off the bleakness. It doesn’t work for Hoseok, and it doesn’t seem to work for the other man either, judging by the somber cast that’s taken over his face.

With Yoongi, though, the deeper and darker he gets, the hungrier he gets, too. The more desperately he reaches for what he wants, the more he craves it. It’s always been like that; whether he aimed for money or fame or skill or a high, he’s always wanted it too much.

He wants this too much, too. Whatever the hell this is, between them. That becomes obvious as Yoongi rolls his shoulders, lips pressing together, and then gets off of Hoseok’s thigh, only to kneel between Hoseok’s legs a second later. When his hands fall to Hoseok’s belt, Hoseok knows he’s being driven by that greed. And – maybe – by a desire to make up for what he’d said. He won’t apologize, not in so many words, but he’s gentle in unbuckling the strap, and his eyes are inquiring when he pauses and looks up at Hoseok, silently asking for permission.

The sight of the small man on his knees in front of him has Hoseok’s throat closing and he can’t make himself speak. The defensive anger from Yoongi’s stupid remark hasn’t left, but neither has his own need, and he, too, sometimes wants things too much. Way too much.

His nod ends up being jerky, but he lifts his hips to help Yoongi pull the belt out of its hoops. With an ease that suggests he, at least, hasn’t been through a dry spell recently, Yoongi unbuttons Hoseok’s pants, undoes the zipper, and then his hand is wrapped around Hoseok’s cock and pulling it out of its confines. It’s already hard and leaking. It only takes one light stroke, made slick by his precum, to have arousal surging up Hoseok’s veins, quieting the longing that’s humming in his head.

This feels so good, it’s almost enough. Hoseok throws back his head, eyes hardly seeing the ceiling, breath and words tangling in his trachea and escaping as barely more than an incoherent plea. Yoongi’s always been good at this, at spreading ecstasy with the mere palms of his hands, and today he’s overdoing himself. Sensitive to Hoseok’s every gasp and whine, his hands sculpt around Hoseok’s dick with just enough pressure, just enough friction to have Hoseok writhing in his seat, thrusting into that pressure with wild abandon.

Panting breaths away from coming, he manages to choke, “Ah, fuck, fuck Yoongi, I’m –”

And abruptly the hand is gone.

He lifts his head, something like a whimper emerging from his lips. It makes his attempt at a glare more than a little feeble, but he does try to glare, because Yoongi is sitting back on his heels and flashing a shit-eating grin that’s so self-satisfied it would have been funny if Hoseok wasn’t currently aching with sodden dissatisfaction. He moves to grab his cock and finish himself, but Yoongi catches his wrist, stopping the movement.

It’s probably possible to break the hold, yet Hoseok just limply drops his arm, caving in to the light grip.

“You’re an asshole,” he exhales, and Yoongi bobs his head in unrepentant agreement.

Still wearing that smug smile, he pushes away the hair from his sweat-soaked forehead. “Yeah. But you should be thanking me; this’ll just make it better when I blow you.”

With his cock still throbbing, a handjob now seems preferable to a blowjob later, and Hoseok snorts. “Better? Maybe your tongue technology is outdated.”

The reference to the original song he’d created makes Yoongi laugh. It’s probably the most carefree – even joyful – he’s sounded the entire night. “Nah man. That shit is upgraded and it’ll keep you elated.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows jump up disbelievingly and he stares. Too fast for him to contain, a rusty laugh suddenly barrels up his throat and bursts from between lips that can’t press hard enough to hold it.

A blush floods Yoongi’s face, cheeks bunching as his flustered smile and barely suppressed giggle scrunch his eyes into narrow crescents. It feels like Hoseok’s heart literally misses a beat as it stumbles over itself, a screechy sort of delight building in his throat, and he has to throttle the urge to reach out and squish the adorable face in front of him. In the past, doing that would make Yoongi even more embarrassed, maybe even pouty, and it would be that much more hilarious and cute. Which, of course, had made it entirely worth doing.

Now, however…

Well, now Hoseok keeps his hands to himself, but he can’t hold back the raucous cackles that keep exploding from him. The laughter is so boisterous it actually hurts a little, but he can’t keep it contained. Maybe he’s just that relieved to have something to laugh at, or maybe in Yoongi’s absence he’s become more sensitive to just how charming the man is when he’s abashed and simultaneously pleased with himself. Regardless, Hoseok is helpless to stop the explosion of hilarity, and Yoongi’s failed attempt at sulking doesn't help.

In fact, seeing his companion struggle to latch a frown on his flushed face, only to drop it seconds later and subside into loud laughter, has him almost howling with mirth.

His amusement drains more quickly than it might have – and honestly, the still-hard state of his dick might have had something to do with it – but Hoseok’s chest is just a little lighter when his cackling abates. It’s – he’d thought he’d never laugh like this again, not with Yoongi. It feels so good to be proven wrong.

Lips still curved upwards, hurting his cheeks, Hoseok can barely get himself together when he tries to talk. “Oh-kay,” he gasps around the lingering laughter, shallow annoyance at Yoongi’s antics totally forgotten. “Okay. Fine, fine. Mr. Updated, I’m ready to be elated.” A pause, and then he’s found enough air to add, “Do I need to read the warning label?”

Yoongi got a hold of the hilarity more quickly than Hoseok did, quickly enough that his voice is almost back to sardonic when he replies, “Nah. I’m not the one with a choking hazard.” His eyes deliberately flick down.

Hoseok chokes at that – and at Yoongi’s hand, once again sliding up his cock. Give it to him, once Yoongi’s decided to do something, he doesn’t hesitate to get it done. They don’t bother discussing condoms, a holdover from older days; both of them are pretty meticulous about getting tested, and shared that conversation years ago.

That makes it easy to relax at the feeling of Yoongi fisting the base of his cock, and then Yoongi is licking his head while his hand rubs the shaft in long, languorous strokes. The soft, wet heat flows straight to Hoseok’s lungs, to his head, a blanket of stifling pleasure. His breath is abruptly heavy, staggering, and automatically Hoseok curls his fingers through Yoongi’s hair, needing to feel something under him, to have some measure of control.

That’s a bit of intimacy that the other man allows, gaze sultry enough to set Hoseok’s skin aflame... if his mouth weren’t doing that already. Hoseok meets the heady scrutiny with an unwavering look, and there’s still a trace of laughter evident in the creases around Yoongi’s eyes. Affection courses through his arteries and he doesn’t know if this is poison or an antidote. All he knows is that he’ll take what’s given, whatever the results. No questions asked.

Yoongi is offering him an answer to his emptiness, and all Hoseok wants is to drown in it.

And drown in it he does, in the thick sounds the other man makes around his cock, in the feel of his fingers settled into Yoongi’s soft locks, in the geyser of aching incandescence that’s fountaining through his stomach and erupting in his chest.

“Yoongi,” he mumbles, and the syllables are perfect in his mouth. “Yoongi, you’re… ah … so, so good . Fuck me, you’re...”

This is part of what he’s wanted so desperately. And even if it’s only half, a third, a decimal of what he’s been longing for, Hoseok soaks in the sensation and, in the moment – right now – convinces himself that this is enough.

This is enough, but – but his fingers still tighten, hips jacking forward faster and harder to chase the warmth that Yoongi is giving him. The man on his knees grunts at the added force, and his hands fall from Hoseok’s cock to brace against Hoseok’s thighs. Not a sign to stop, not yet, and Hoseok wants so badly, wants to come in Yoongi’s mouth, wants to spill himself for something more than absolutely nothing at all.

Frantically Hoseok fucks Yoongi’s mouth, his thrusts deep and heavy, gaze focused on Yoongi’s face. The other man has his eyes closed, and he takes the hard jerks with a bobbing throat and squeezed eyes. A bit of saliva has escaped from the corner of his mouth, and his sweat is plastering his darkened hair to his forehead in a straggling mess. Like this – choking and gagging on Hoseok’s cock, fingers feebly curled into his thighs, face strained with the effort of keeping up – Yoongi looks… fuck, Yoongi looks good. He looks… like how Hoseok wants him to look. Barely keeping it together. Wrecked.

Hoseok comes with a muffled groan, the sound tearing out of him like there’s a wound in his throat, pleasure coursing through him in jagged strips of lightning. Yoongi chokes more harshly, and then his hands are pushing firmly against Hoseok’s legs. Taking that cue immediately, Hoseok relaxes his grip, letting the other man pull off of him with a wet noise.

Still gasping, Yoongi nonetheless keeps his face near Hoseok’s cock, and the last few spurts catch him on the lips, the cheek. Pearly white fluid trickles down his chin, mixing with his saliva, and the sight is abruptly so overwhelming Hoseok has to look away.

Yoongi’s breath is ragged, interspersed with coughing, and it takes several minutes to smooth out. In that time, Hoseok... drifts. The sexual satisfaction drapes across him, smothering in its weight, and he makes no attempt to disentangle himself from it. In a different time he would have pulled Yoongi into his lap, caressed his back and pressed gentle kisses along his shoulders until he recovered his breath. Maybe he would have gotten him a glass of water, or joined him on the floor.

Now… Now Yoongi rests on his haunches, recovering alone. Hoseok recovers alone, too. By the time Yoongi’s caught his breath, the painful ecstasy has faded, leaving a worn out ache that’s nowhere near his groin, but somewhere higher, just above his sternum.

He’d… shit, had he really wanted to see Yoongi choke? Wanted to see him struggle to keep up, to take it, just to please Hoseok? Because… what, because he deserved it?

Guilt invades his head, dispelling the satisfaction like mist in a heavy rain. Hoseok shifts uncomfortably, forcing himself to turn his eyes to Yoongi.

The other man is looking at him, and when he sees Hoseok’s gaze, he flushes. He doesn’t glance away, though. Face still slick with cum and spit, his cheeks stained red from effort and from coughing, he shouldn’t look as soft as he does. As tender. “How was it?” he asks, like it’s not already obvious, and though his voice is hoarse, it isn’t mocking.

“Good. Really good.” Hoseok’s hands are on his thighs, rubbing at the fabric, and he can’t seem to make himself stop. “I – If I went a bit overboard, or –”

“Did I tell you to get off, except at the end?” Yoongi slowly rises, turning the motion into one long stretch. His neck and collarbone are marked with a mottled collection of the fresh hickeys that are beginning to show. “Nothing’s changed with that, Hobi. I can take it.”

That doesn’t mean you should have to. That’s something Hoseok doesn’t know how to say. Why are you taking it, is another collection of words that won’t leave his tongue. The biting, the bruises, the facefucking… It’s not that they’d never done it before, but this is a further extreme, and more than that, it’s not mutual. They liked pushing at each other, straining limits, but this –

This isn’t that.

“Well – I’m still sorry.”

“Didn’t I tell you to leave off on that shit?” Harsh words, but said mildly, and Yoongi shakes his head. “I’ll be right back.” He slips away, leaving Hoseok to the shame that’s fighting with his justifications. A stalemate. He really can’t remember where his pleasure had begun and his resentment had ended in the stifling thrill of fucking Yoongi. If there even was a beginning… or an end.

Yoongi comes back too quickly for the question to spiral into something blacker. He’s got a Kleenex box in one hand, a bottle in another, and sets both on the table unceremoniously. Snagging a tissue for himself, Yoongi starts wiping off his face while using his other hand to turn the bottle so that the label’s facing Hoseok.

Lube, as if he couldn’t have guessed.

Somewhat surprisingly, though, Yoongi doesn’t immediately pop the question. To Hoseok’s relief, he’s quiet as they clean up a bit. Then Yoongi settles back on the couch, his limbs sprawled in a lazily casual pose. Not right next to Hoseok, but close. Close enough to reach, if Hoseok wanted to.

He wants to.

His hands remain at his side.

Working his jaw, his thumb gently massaging his throat, Yoongi smiles faintly. “Mmm, that’s gonna hurt in the morning.” When Hoseok grimaces, he shakes his head. “In a good way, Hobi.” Yoongi pauses, leans a little away, like he wants to get a better look at his companion. After a moment of quiet that draws out thick and uneasy (at least on Hoseok’s part), Yoongi says softly, “You know I’m good, right? This didn’t, like, kill the mood for me or anything. I just couldn’t quite finish you off, at the end. Not your fault.”

It didn’t kill the mood for Hoseok, either, and that might be part of the problem. Shoulders hunched, he replies tersely. “I didn’t – I don’t wanna hurt you, Yoongs.”

“Really? Coulda fooled me.” When Hoseok huddles even further into himself at the lightly teasing note, Yoongi hums, a chastised sound. “Nah, I’m kidding. Besides, maybe I want you to hurt me. Ever think of that?”

Hoseok skirts a glance at him sidelong, and Yoongi raises a sardonic eyebrow. “You’re not gonna kinkshame me, are you? I still remember the mirror thing, with–”

“How are you so okay with this!?” The demand bursts out, more of an appeal than a question, and Hoseok can’t stand how relaxed the other man looks. How easily he’s accepting how Hoseok has been going at him tonight. Hoseok had disliked how cutting Yoongi was earlier, the insults and taunts sinking in like barbs, but he’d take that before – before whatever the hell Yoongi is doing now.

Yoongi examines Hoseok for a long moment before he replies. “I… forgot,” he eventually says, the words slow but not uncertain. “How good it feels, how… how whole I feel, to be near you. So you’re rough, so what? As if I give a fuck about that, after… everything else.”

There’s too much in those words. Too much hope, too much joy… and too much permission granted when it shouldn’t be, or at least for the wrong reasons.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He repeats it because he has to drive the words through his own skull, convince himself of them. “Not like this, Yoongi. Not…”

“So don’t.” He jerks around to stare at Yoongi head on, and the other man is smiling, just a thin twist of amusement. “Whatever else, you’re not an asshole, Hobi. I haven’t known you in years, and I still know that’s true. If it’s bugging you this much, it’s not your thing. At least not tonight.”

Hoseok doesn’t reply. He can still feel that bloom of pleasure, that wave of satisfied vindication that had struck him so forcefully at the sight of Yoongi choking. With that in his head, he’s not so sure that Yoongi’s right about him not being an asshole.

“Hey.” It’s Yoongi that bridges the gap, reaching over to give Hoseok’s bare shoulder a gentle shake. “It happened. I’m fine. Hell, I didn’t mind it.” His free hand steals up to caress the many marks Hoseok had left scattered across his neck. “Might even learn to do more than that. But…” Now his exhale is harder, closer to frustration. “For now, forget about it, okay? If you’re done, that’s fine, but I’m still good to go.”

That’s one of Yoongi’s greatest strengths. When he makes his peace with something, that’s it. He’s not someone to gnaw on a problem, to mull it over until it’s stripped to nothingness; he’s too blunt, too firm in himself, to bother with that.

Hoseok… does not have that strength. However, with Yoongi’s grip warm and secure on his shoulder, he thinks that maybe… maybe he could lean into his companion’s strength. Borrow a little of that certainty. At least for now.

Another bandaid. At this rate they’ll be covered with them.

It’s better than bleeding out. Hoseok makes himself smile; he makes himself chuckle. The sound is strained, but it still fills the air with something other than oppressive tension. “If you’re still good to go, old man, I am too.”

A long-time joke that makes Yoongi laugh. “You won’t be calling me that later,” he promises, and closes the distance between them.

They make out again, messier and deeper than last time. Physically at least, Hoseok was absolutely not lying when he said he was good, and as Yoongi strips out of his pants and underwear, it quickly becomes obvious that the other man wasn’t lying, either. Hoseok follows suit, yanks off the pants that hadn’t quite made it all the way off before.

Everything about this is slower than before, and it’s also softer. They kiss for a long time, hands busy exploring each other’s bodies, running over the canvas of skin with careful precision. A rediscovery.

Hoseok feels abruptly – timid isn’t quite it, but hesitant. Uncertain. Yoongi easily steps into the gap left by his misgivings. He’s gentle when he kisses Hoseok, but his hands are firm as they guide Hoseok to bend over the arm of the couch, bracing himself with his forearms. Those hands are no less certain when they cup Hoseok’s ass, spreading him wide.

Yoongi kisses the back of his thighs first, tender presses that still have the air seeping out of Hoseok’s lungs. Everything after that is a landslide of languorous sensation. The feel of Yoongi rimming him is a silky sort of pleasure, inspiring a tingling bliss that has his eyes drifting shut. Yoongi’s tongue flicks against him, slow strokes that tease his nerves, and he keeps at it until the languor becomes hotter, more urgent. His hands are busy too, playing with Hoseok’s balls and sliding along his stomach, and the touches are liquid heat added to a vessel that’s already overflowing.

Hoseok finds himself whining, subdued little sobs that he can’t quite hold back. The first time Yoongi adds lube to the mixture, the slick coldness of it being worked between his cheeks makes Hoseok stiffen and nearly yelp. Behind him Yoongi laughs, his fingers stilling for a moment, giving Hoseok a chance to relax. “Bear with it, yeah? Just a little more…”

Then his finger is penetrating Hoseok, still slow, almost too slow, and Hoseok moans. “Good boy,” Yoongi murmurs, dragging through the motion with maddening control. “You take it so good, Hobi.” He adds another finger shortly after, and the pressure quickly becomes staggering.

“More,” he groans, pushing back against Yoongi's hand.

The need floats through his stomach, so light it’s almost separate from him, but Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Nuh-uh. We’re going my way now, Hobi.”

Somewhere in the midst of the fluttering pleasure, Hoseok has just enough brain capacity left to suspect this may be some kind of revenge. Yoongi strokes his ass while penetrating him more deeply, and another wave of bliss drowns the thought.

Didn’t matter. This is a kind of revenge he could get behind.

The first time Hoseok finds himself about to come, the orgasm gathering force at the edge of his groin and his voice pitching up into raw breathlessness, he’s severely disappointed. Abruptly Yoongi’s fingers are gone, and even worse, his other hand is wrapped around the tip of Hoseok’s cock, lightly squeezing. Hoseok’s orgasm rises – hovers – and then falls away, back into a simmering intensity that has him writhing petulantly.

“Yoongi,” he gasps accusingly when he’s found enough breath to get anything out.

“So impatient,” Yoongi drawls, fingers dragging against Hoseok’s ass cheek in teasing circles – but doing nothing more than that.

“You are such an – ah. ”

Yoongi doesn’t move his fingers much once he’s slid them back in, just mild motions, enough to keep the fires in Hoseok’s gut stoked but no more than that. “Do you wanna beg me, Hobi? I’d probably let you get off if you did.”

A memory. Yoongi leaning over him and Hoseok so strung out he’s almost delirious. Strung out on Molly, yeah, but on feelings, too. A tsunami of sensations. An affection that’s so keen it hurts as he gazes into Yoongi’s blown pupils. The words, falling from his mouth in a nearly incoherent stream. “Please, Yoongi, please, I want you so bad, I want – I want – Please.”

He drops his head, presses his face against the forearm that’s braced against the couch’s arm. “Such an asshole.” The words are muffled, but Yoongi clearly hears them because he huffs, caught between a chuckle and a scoff.

“Suit yourself.”

When Yoongi’s fingers leave Hoseok, he has just enough time to be extravagantly dissatisfied before the other man puts one hand on his hip, the other sliding up his spine to rest on the nape of his neck. From that position Yoongi leans over him, hips pressing into his ass, breath tickling his face. “You ready for something a bit more?”

“Only if it’s actually more,” Hoseok retorts.

A hard breath and then Yoongi gently nips at the outer shell of his ear, a teasing rebuke. “‘Course it will be.”

Though he takes his goddamn time with this, too. Settles back and preps himself with more lube, to judge by the tense sounds he makes, and Hoseok glances back a few times to enjoy the sight of Yoongi stroking his cock. After some time – more time than is needed, Yoongi’s eyes alight with wicked amusement when Hoseok squirms – he guides himself to Hoseok, the other hand returning to grip the back of his neck. Enters him with a gradual thrust that’s slick and easy because of the lube. Almost too easy, leaving Hoseok panting for more.

Yoongi’s not a liar, though. At least not about this. He gives Hoseok more, and then some.

His dick is more than enough to fill Hoseok, a swelling force that only grows as Yoongi pushes himself in more deeply. The heat builds, swelters, sweeps across Hoseok’s muscles until he’s trembling with the intensity of it. His partner’s sounds – guttural grunts that pitch into tantalizing breathlessness – just enhance the feverish frenzy.

Yoongi is as deliberate as before, but – thank fucking God – he picks up the pace before too long. His tempo is jarring in its relentless drive, and he hammers into Hoseok with so much force that it becomes hard to hold himself up on the couch arm.

A particularly strong thrust spills Hoseok off his balance, and he pitches forward and finds himself hanging off the edge of the couch, the arm pushing into his lower chest. The sudden change in position puts Yoongi at just the right angle, and his next stroke has Hoseok crying out with the burn of pleasure. The other man slows, but Hoseok manages to croak, “No, Yoongs, keep – keep going,” and Yoongi obliges.

At last, and too soon, he comes. The tidal wave of electric heat surges from Hoseok’s groin, splashes against his nerves and sends waves of shuddering release through his trembling body as his back arches. Hoseok shakes with the intensity of his peak, whining gasps escaping his lips, his vision white around the edges. He can feel his cum trickling down his leg, and the sensation makes him sag. It takes all he has not to collapse completely, to just let the pleasure overwhelm him.

But Yoongi’s still going, so Hoseok does the best he can to keep upright. After the initial flurry of gut-wrenching fervor, it gets easier, and he rolls his hips a bit, pushes back, trying to return the favour. Yoongi’s hand never left his neck, and it tightens now as Yoongi’s strokes become faster, shorter, more erratic. “Fuck, Hobi,” he’s panting, the words a slur of feeling. “You’re so – perfect. So much ...”

Hoseok feels Yoongi’s orgasm as a pulsing at the base of his cock, buried in Hoseok’s ass. As, seconds later, an increased wetness pooling inside. More vivid is Yoongi’s voice, huskily crying out, his tone a tapestry of gratified colours.

He can read that tapestry, and to hear Yoongi elevated to those blissful highs makes something in Hoseok’s chest tighten and lighten simultaneously. When Yoongi slumps against him, rubbing his face into Hoseok’s shoulder, the exhilaration just soars, a sweet joy that they still have this. Can still leave each other spent in the best way possible.

The past wavers against the future like a mirage rising from the road, difficult to separate, but for this moment, with Yoongi a warm weight against his back, Hoseok ignores the presence of the illusion. He flops onto the couch, and Yoongi falls partially on him with a grunt of agreement. They lie there for several minutes, and the other man barely moves, his breathing deep and steady as it spills against Hoseok’s skin.

It doesn’t last forever. It can’t. But while it does, he closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the careless way Yoongi slouches into him. Like it’s natural. Like they’re both exactly where they’re supposed to be. He lets himself believe in the reassuring burden at his back. Lets himself believe, for now, that it won’t suddenly disappear.

Yoongi lifts himself up after a while, but not before nuzzling against Hoseok’s shoulder a final time. “Time to clean up,” he whispers, and then he’s pulling out in a gush of sticky warmth that stains Hoseok’s thighs and probably the couch, too.

The next few minutes are all business, though this, at least, isn’t caused by whatever alienation is between them. Yoongi’s always been very no-nonsense about clean-up, and Hoseok is enough of a neat freak to jump on that wagon with wholehearted purpose. They don’t talk, and at first that’s fine, the familiarity of the tasks before them settling naturally into the silence. They wipe themselves off, fix the squished cushions. As Hoseok pulls on his pants, Yoongi disappears and then reappears with cleaning supplies.

By mutual agreement, Hoseok scrubs the floor and Yoongi tackles the couch. It’s as his knees are pressed into the floor and he’s briskly wiping at the puddle left by the blowjob that discomfort starts to creep up on him, and the quiet begins to grate.

Even when they’re done and Yoongi’s flipped the worst of the cushions with nonchalant disregard for whoever turns it over in the future, the silence stays. They settle back onto the couch – Yoongi in a new set of clothes he’d recovered from his room down the hallway, black sweats and a grey T-shirt – and this is different than the agonizingly tense stillness of before.

It’s more tired, less hostile. But no less bewildered, for all of that.

Hoseok wonders how stupid it is to wish that, just once, a bandaid could cure gaping wounds and broken hearts.

At least Yoongi isn’t sitting much apart from him. As they recline, Yoongi with his feet up on the table, the smaller man is close enough to touch. Hoseok, made greedy by everything that’s gone before, too drained to be afraid enough to stop, holds out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Yoongi settles his hand on top. Not quite holding – his fingertips trace fitfully across Hoseok’s palm, a ticklish series of swirls and lines.

Yoongi seems content to sit as they are; his eyes are half-closed, and he doesn’t stir like Hoseok does, every few seconds shifting and tensing. Yoongi is good at accepting the things in his hands, especially if it’s what he’s wanted all along. For Hoseok, though…

The anxiety grows, and if it isn’t anywhere near strong enough to displace the satisfaction and almost-wholeness of the last hour or so, it’s too stubborn to totally dislodge from his mind.

He steals a look at Yoongi, at his long lashes lazily fluttering over his dark eyes, at the slight curl of his mouth, an unconscious expression of contentment. The sight has Hoseok’s throat closing with yearning, and he honestly can’t tell if it’s a longing for the man or his ability to exist in the moment. Hoseok used to be good at that – he used to be the best – but it’s something he’s lost over the years.

Just like so much else. How much of it can he get back? How much should he get back?

What if he wants it all?

He stirs for the umpteenth time, but more forcefully. When he withdraws his hand, Yoongi’s eyes slide open, head tipping to consider him. His expression is watchful and solemn, so much so that Hoseok realizes he hadn’t been as at ease as Hoseok had thought.

“Tired?” Yoongi asks wanly.

“Something like that,” Hoseok replies, just as faded.

There isn’t a window in this room, but there must be one in the kitchen because Yoongi says, “It’s almost a fucking snowstorm out there. Not much point in you going home in that.”

There’s a pause, and Yoongi’s gaze drifts to the hallway leading to his room. He hadn’t offered the space for them to fuck around in – a hurt that Hoseok buried deep in his chest when they began – and he seems to be struggling now. Furrows appear between his fine eyebrows, an eloquent testament to the conflict going on in his head, a return to the tension of before. Hoseok abruptly can’t bear to see it.

They both want so badly, but sometimes – for just today, or maybe forever – they have to accept that they can’t have it all.

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” Yoongi stills at the declaration Hoseok makes, his hand coming up to press against his neck like he needs reassurance.

It’s such a lost, lonely look. Hoseok swallows, and then smiles. One of his better pieces. “It’s fine. You always get those rocks for pillows, I’ll be better out here.”

“They’re good for my neck,” Yoongi mutters, but his hand doesn’t leave his throat and he still looks unsure. Like any second he might blurt out the invitation that neither of them are really comfortable accepting.

“I still move around like a psycho in my sleep, Yoongs, ‘specially in an unfamiliar bed. Believe me, it’s better if I’m out here.” He meets Yoongi’s gaze, tries to reassure with eyes alone that he is okay with this.

And he is. Insofar as he’s been okay with anything tonight.

At last Yoongi relents and his hand falls. “‘Kay. I’ll grab you some shit.”

Blankets, a pillow, some oversized sweats, a toothbrush, they’re all unceremoniously dumped onto the couch. Yoongi – somewhat belatedly – gives him a tour of the small apartment, though it doesn’t include his room. It’s essentially to point out the bathroom and where the chipped glasses for water are in the kitchen. As he’d said, it’s snowing hard outside, and when Hoseok returns to the living room he actually feels grateful to be able to curl into blankets instead of straggling outside in the cold.

The rest is just cleaning up, fastidiously making a bed for himself, throwing on the sweatpants Yoongi provided, and then reclining on the couch. It’s just a bit too small, and he might or might not find himself falling off it at some point during the night – he was being honest about the restlessness thing – but nonetheless Hoseok grins at Yoongi, hovering nearby.

“Perfect!” he declares, stretching out his arms and wiggling his toes under the blanket.

Yoongi lifts an eyebrow at the enthusiastic and totally not excessive display. “You look like a kid at your first sleepover,” he observes with a snort that does nothing to dispel the affection in his voice.

Hoseok squirms his way deeper into the blankets in reply.

Smiling faintly, Yoongi shakes his head. “Night, Hobi. You want the light off?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The living room is abruptly dark, leaving just the light spilling from behind the door to Yoongi’s bedroom, left slightly ajar. Hoseok wiggles a few more times, finding a more comfortable position. It’s as he’s sinking into the cushions with a sudden sense of exhaustion that he realizes Yoongi isn’t in his room; his silhouette is breaking up the light coming from there.

He cranes his neck, can’t see anything but Yoongi’s dim outline down the hall, and gives it up as a bad job. Instead Hoseok just stares up at the ceiling he can’t see, listening to the sound of his own steady breathing. He waits.

“Hey, Hobi?” Yoongi’s voice eventually slips through the dark room, diffidently calling for Hoseok’s attention, and he murmurs a quiet question in return.

“I missed you, too.”

It comes to Hoseok as Yoongi’s door softly closes that he’s holding his breath. Like a sudden exhale might release the thrumming in his chest. Like he might spill the nebulous joy if he sighs too hard. His thoughts are fragile with uncertainty. The elation is a shivery, delicate thing, and he knows if he holds it too hard in his head it’s going to go to pieces under the weight of the past.

So Hoseok doesn’t hold the words hard. He breathes. Breathes and closes his eyes and pushes his face into the pillow that smells like Yoongi. He follows those words as he slips into sleep, and he couldn’t have said where they were leading him.

#yoongi x hoseok #yoonseok #sope #yoonseok smut #yoongi #hoseok #my fic

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nervousmendes · 4 years

Text

Unsent Part 1 - Shawn Mendes

shawn x reader

a/n : so I'm finally back afer a really long break and I've been so excited to edit and post this one. I should also mention that is my first time writing angst so please be kind. any feedback would be much appreciated!

warnings : none, just 1.5k words of amateur angst and heartbreak

find more of my work : masterlist

It was a pleasant Saturday, the sun was long gone and the moonlight that spilled through the window was just enough to relax you while you worked on your research paper. Doing a PhD was never easy, and now that classes were going on in full swing, you were almost convinced that it was impossible. Your days mostly just consisted of you going to classes, working on essays, trips to the library and maybe watch a little Netflix before you hit the sack. It was a routine now, and you were always used to this life. You found your calm in the chaos whenever you could talk to your boyfriend who was touring somewhere in some city across the ocean. With your time zones never matching and him constantly traveling it was impossible to keep up with his schedule but you both did your best to stay as connected as possible.

When tour first kicked off, you missed Shawn so much. You hated the distance and you spent hours on end talking to him on facetime, blowing kisses and whining about wanting "virtual cuddles". It was a nightly ritual for the two of you to facetime immediately after his show, and since he was still in America at the time, it was easier to find a way to talk when you were both free. Even when you'd be too busy looking into your laptop screen while he was performing for thousands of excited teenagers every other night, there was some kind of warmth, some affirmation, that at the end of the day it was always going to be the two of you together until forever. Even though the physical distance made you sad, your relationship with him never seemed to burn out. Your love for each other was always so strong that the thought of being apart from each other never threatened your relationship.

But things shifted with time and the routine facetime calls went from after every show to every alternate show and then to every few days. You'd only text each other once or twice a day and it always felt like it was just for the sake of it. Sometimes you would go about your entire day and only realize before going to bed that you hadn't thought of him or spoken to him once throughout. You now knew more about him through his Instagram stories than you did from what he told you about tour. The quick ‘I love you’s exchanged before hanging up felt more mechanical than natural. Of course it hurt you, it made you feel guilty and made your heart ache at the same time, but you knew deep down that he was feeling that way too. It's not like he remembered to text you every single day either. It now turned into a subconscious competition of who would start the conversation first. Every text was thought out, typed, backspaced and rephrased. It felt like you didn't know each other as well as you once did. You would overthink not knowing whether a read receipt would do or a reply would be more reassuring. Everything seemed different, and not at all in a good way. As much as you hated to even think of it, a part of you felt that maybe you didn't love him anymore but your heart would never let you admit that.

You often went to bed not feeling sleepy at all, replaying all the memories from the initial stages of your relationship. The giddy first date, the awkward first kiss, the butterflies, the cheesy gifts and all the sneaking around. It felt like you were both different people back then. And maybe you just grew up or grew out of it, but does real love ever fade away? Does it suddenly empty itself and leave a void in your heart? How does it just make everything go away? You always thought, no you knew that he was the one. You still remember eighteen months ago at the fair, when he went down on one knee holding a huge stick of cotton candy in his hand, asking you to be "his honorable girlfriend until the end of time" and promised to never break your heart, you kissed him with everything in you right outside the Ferris wheel knowing in your heart that you already kind of wanted this forever. He had always been the one.

You both appreciated the little things, it was kind of what built your relationship with him. The reassuring glances from across a crowded room that made you uncomfortable, the hand around your waist when a distant friend would be “too nice” to you or the way his fingers played with your hair after a long, disheartening day were some of the many things you loved about your relationship with him. You always felt the need to be physically connected to him and it was almost common knowledge that Shawn's love language too was touch. You desperately missed the way his hand would automatically lace with yours while you walked together and the warmth it spread in you when his hands would go to the back of your neck to leave a tender kiss to your lips. And when one of you had a rough day, the other would kiss the stray tears away and you would both hold each other so tight until your ragged breaths would slow down and your hearts would beat to the rhythm of each other's pulse. All of that now felt like a distant memory, it was like you had him and lost him at the same time. Everything you once had with each other slipped right through your fingers. You would kill to go back in time and figure out anything you could've done differently to give this all a miss because the thought of even having to talk about the collected weight on both of your chests physically pained you. What if this was over? And even if it's not, what if there's nothing left to give? How were you going to go on knowing he's not yours anymore? While you learnt to live a life without him, you never once forgot that he would come right back to you. And now maybe he won’t and there’s nothing you could do about it. So many questions and so many thoughts ran through your head as you were still staring at the text you received about five minutes ago.

Hey I landed sometime back. On my way to Pickering. See u tomorrow? - Shawn

No “babe”. No “honey”. Nothing about the movies he watched on the flight, or the occasional "Omg we're SO watching it together". It was a plain text just to keep you informed. Mechanical. You thought back to the last time he came home from tour, when he first showed up at your door and pushed for you to come spend the weekend with him and his family in Pickering. Gone were those days when he'd ring you up as soon as he had service on his phone again to tell you how tiring the flight was or how much he hated the food, and on hearing that you would order his favourite pizza before he got home. You read and re-read the insipid words on your screen and after a lot of thinking, with a doubtful mind, you typed out a simple response.

Yes. Hope your flight was okay, get some rest tonight!

After humming and hawing for long enough, you hit send and patiently waited for the thumbs up he left under your text as an instant response. His lack of interest in continuing the conversation did sting, but you quickly pushed it away considering the fact that you were going to meet him the very next day and he’d clearly already had a tiring flight back to Toronto. You shifted around, pulling your blanket closer up to your face and just as you turned away and closed your eyes, the screen of your phone lit up again.

We need to talk, don't we... - Shawn

Shawn sat in his car parked outside his childhood home, right leg bouncing unconsciously and staring intently at the text he had just sent. He patiently waited for it to go from 'delivered' to 'read'. But it didn't. His bouncing leg was now shivering and the words he regretted typing out were staring right back at him. His fingers trembled over the screen, and with a shaky breath he unsent the message without giving it another thought. He took his bags and walked up to Karen and Manny at the door smiling widely as he silently thanked technology for saving him. But little did he know that your eyes were on the screen of your phone as you read those nauseating words under his contact name, and then watched the pop up disappear a minute after.

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I'm already working on part 2 and I can't wait to post it soon!! hope you liked this <3

dm me or reply to get added/removed from my taglist.

taglist : @theregoesmyherojd @shawnmendez @mendesficsxbombay @madatmendes @samaratheweirdo @mendesassemble @vinylmendes @ghostofjuls @shawnsreputation @amateurwriter27 @shawnblrficawards @shawnsprincesse

#shawn mendes #shawn imagine #shawn mendes fanfic #Shawn Mendes Imagine #shawn mendes imagines #shawn mendes angst #shawn angst #shawn mendes one shot #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes oneshot #mendes army #shawn fanfic #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes blurb #shawn blurbs

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j-wont-stop · 3 years

Text

Mary Mary (Chapter One)

Title - Mary Mary (Chapter One)

Word Count - 1696

Fandom - The Umbrella Academy

Pairing - Five Hargreeves x OC

Summary - October 1st, 1989. Forty-Three infants were born to women with no previous signs of pregnancy. It was also the day of four-year-old Mariana Polakoff’s death. The world carried on, her mother being the only one left to grieve. But on one miraculous day, the little girl was spotted. But she was not how the world remembered her.

Warning(s) - None

Inspiration - I Just Died In Your Arms (Hidden Citizens)

A/N - This is set after season two, but instead of the Sparrow Academy appearing, everything is back to normal. Five is also physically 22 for reasons later on in the story.

22 April 2011

"I could keep you safe. They're all afraid of me."

"How is that when they can't see you?" There was a deep hum. No matter how many years he had been teaching her, her accent still remained thick as can be.

"Let's just say I'll be living vicariously." Lilac eyes shown through the darkness, filled with mischief. "Come, my dear," Knuckles brushed along her jaw. "The world isn't waiting any longer." Before she could question it his eyes faded. There was a growing pressure that surrounded her, suffocating her. An odd smell tickled her nose along with what had covered her. It was grainy, yet soft. It reminded her of something she couldn't quite remember.

The same clawed hand reached through to snatch the collar of her dress and she gasped when she was viciously pulled up. A bright light made her squint as she felt herself collapse on all fours, the pressure quickly relieving itself. A chill ran down her spine and she sat herself to wrap her arms around her thin frame.

"Mary?" A familiar voice beckoned ever so softly. She blinked a few times before fully opening her eyes that widened further. The first thing that she saw was the hoofed man towering over her, a curious look in his eyes. He gave a warming chuckle. "Confused as ever, I see." He bent down and pulled her to her feet, hands almost completely covering her upper arms. He brushed out the black fabric of her dress as she continued to look around in bewilderment. "It's a wonder how they didn't stain." He mumbled as he looked over her white cuffs and collar.

"Where am I?" The man paused and smiled to himself, then he slowly met her gaze.

"Do you not remember, my dear?" She shook her head. "This was your home. This was where you lived before I found you." He motioned to the scenery around them with his arms. Mary looked around her. The sounds of engines buzzing, birds chirping and phones ringing filled her ears. Numerous colors lined the busy streets with cars and people. She pulled her attention away from it all to where she had come from, but all she was met with was grass and a gravestone.

Mariana Polakoff

15 December 1985 - 1 October 1989

"How did I-?"

"You had a severe health condition and went into cardiac arrest." He cut her off, but she could tell there was more to it that he wasn't telling her. "Come, dear," He laid a hand on her back to guide her. "Let's find somewhere to settle down." The closer he led her to the sidewalk the more nervous she grew, unsure about the entirely new environment. Her heartbeat grew faster and he sensed it. "You have nothing to fear, sweet thing. All you have to do is follow me." She looked up at him and his eyes gently squinted, a sign that he was smiling at her. She leaned into his side as his arm rested around her shoulders. Those who passed her gave her an odd look, very few held sympathy and even fewer a smile.

"Why do they look at me like that?"

"They're just jealous, my dear." His thumb rubbed circles into the bone of her shoulder.

"Jealous how?"

"Jealous of your beauty."

"My beauty-?" She looked at herself using a window they passed and her eyes widened. She stalled her movements, or attempted to before her guardian forced her to keep walking. She stumbled a little at his light push, still fixed on what she saw. "Dascal?" Questioned Mary as they turned into an apartment complex. It was a bit run down, the paper starting to peel from the walls and stairs a bit worn. Dust filled their noses and Mary sneezed into her elbow making the man next to her chuckle. They were about to turn another corner when Dascal yanked her back. The girl threw him a pointed glare and almost pecked at him when she noticed the frightened brunette in front of her. She was practically her own height, if not slightly taller. Her face held a sense of innocence and it seemed to be refreshing to the girl.

"Mariana?" Dascal snapped her out of her head and she swallowed.

"Prostyte." The girl quickly apologized and continued on with her journey. The brown haired woman just watched her in confusion and slight fear until they disappeared through a door a little ways down.

"It's not much, but it will do for now." Dascal commented as the girl wandered to the bathroom off to the right. The man sighed and followed after her, hooves lightly clicking against the wooden floor. He ducked under the doorway and stood behind Mary who stared at herself in the mirror, eyes wide and lips ajar.

She was taller than she had remembered. Her frame now held a delicate form rather than the one she had as a four-year-old that was akin to a pencil. Her skin was smooth and almost white as snow, peppered with moles here and there.

Her nimble fingers reached up towards her hair, combing through it with ease at its softness. Egg white strands fell through, a deep contrast to the black roots. Her eyes were a ghostly blue rather than the stark icicles she held before, their liveliness lost along with who she used to be.

There was one thing that stayed the same, however. The one thing that brought a melancholic smile to her lips. Her fingers moved to brush over her nose. The small bird beak a resemblance of the same one her mother held.

Her mother.

Her eyes grew to saucers and she was about to whip around, but the hands on her waist held her in place.

"Mama?" She whispered to herself, eyes glistening from their new coat of water.

"I'm afraid that must be a conversation for another time." In her dazed and worrisome state he led her back out to the dull living room, the same size as the even more dull kitchen. There was no dining area due to how small the apartment was and an almost closet-sized bedroom was nestled in next to the bathroom. She knew she would touch up on some things later on, picturing what she wanted it to look like in her head. All of the paintings and nicknacks she wanted to put on display for no one to see.

Mary slowly walked behind the couch, her fingertips barely grazing the top of it as she came to its front and sat down. With her legs crossed and arms spread across the fabric she breathed in the scent of the worn out room. She felt a hand comb through her hair, claws gracing her scalp so gently that she closed her eyes at the pleasure. A sigh of satisfaction left her lips as her head tilted back and Dascal chuckled. Then his movements stilled. Mary's lips moved to speak, but she was cut off by the sounds of knuckles tapping the door. She raised a single brow at him and stood up fixing the skirt of her dress. "So soon?"

Dascal and Mary exchanged a look of confusion, though the former's stare held a certain hostility. He stayed where he was and carefully eyed her movements, the way her hand curved around the door knob. It twisted in a way that was suspenseful and her nerves became stronger, without a clue of who or what was behind the door. She pulled it back just enough to peek her head through.

"Hello?" A strained feminine voice cut through. Dascal gradually made his way over to the two of them, hovering over Mary. His presence, yet invading her space, was always a comfort for her. It felt like she was home. His scent was unique. She relished the moments she was able to breathe it in. Another reason she didn't mind his closeness.

"Yes?" Her voice was even, stoic. Void of emotion as she looked the stranger in the eyes. Her confidence unnerved them.

"Who is it?" Dascal quietly asked. Mary opened the door further to reveal the same brunette they had run into. He hummed, then stiffened when Mary flinched. The woman held out a ten dollar bill. Her posture was awkward and ansty, but at the same time she was as still as a statue.

"I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're thinking." The stranger softly spoke. It wasn't hostile or judgemental. It sounded rather fascinated.

"I've heard those words before." Mary's face remained unmoving. The woman sighed, her arm starting to wear out.

"Look, I found this after you almost ran into me and I just wanted to give it back to you. I think you dropped it." Mary's mouth moved to deny the claim, but Dascal cut her off.

"How kind." She turned to look up at him, seeing that same mischievous glint in his eyes. "Take it. She's waiting." She turned back to the brunette who seemed confused and slowly took the ten dollars from her. She watched as the woman quickly snatched her hand away with large eyes, but as soon as it happened it was gone. Before she left she spoke once more.

"I live in 205 if you need anything." Dascal softly closed the door and looked down at the pale girl who just stared at the money in her hands.

"Dinner?"

#five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x oc #five hargreeves fanfiction #five hargreeves #Aidan gallagher x oc #Aidan gallagher x reader #Aidan gallagher fanfiction #aidan gallagher #tua #tua fanfiction #tua x reader #tua x oc

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kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 41

Read on AO3. Part 40 here. Part 42 here.

Summary: You need Kylo Ren to understand. He needs you to understand, too.

Words: 3900

Warnings: an attempt at emotions

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Is this angst? Is this how you write angst? Is it angsty enough? Hahaha.

Thank you all very much for reading. Only four chapters left, and I am honestly terrified! Haha. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, I tend to like the ones where I can attempt something new. I want the emotional beats to feel correct.

I love y'all very very much. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.

You were awake.

Your bed was stone, a slab that poked through your flesh into the bone, forcing adjustments between tired sighs. Even though this movement exhausted you, you found it impossible to sleep.

It couldn’t have been the baby. After all, it was blueberry-sized at this stage, a time when most women didn’t even know they were pregnant. And it couldn’t have been pain, as most of it had subsided, or faded to a pleasant, ambient hum in your nerves, far more comforting than distressing. It couldn’t have been hunger, either--at least not anymore. Sneaking food from the kitchen after sunset had quelled your raging stomach.

But you still found it impossible to sleep.

It was obvious, of course, why you couldn’t, but it was a memory you wanted to avoid processing. Johana’s tattered voice, gleaming tears, her admission--I give up, you won--played in your head like a busted cassette tape, rewinding with a sickening click every five seconds. Your Commander’s decision, his cruelty, that remained unprocessed too, a willing rejection of his apparent reckless obsession. You would not, could not consider just how deep, how desperate this obsession was, would and could not consider the urgency of its terrible course.

If you considered it too long, you would feel its twin, the ache in your blood, the silver pulse of your own mirrored need--and know its depth and its desperation as easily as you knew to breathe.

You sat up in a sigh. Beyond your porthole window, the quarter-moon was an opal shimmer over the garden, and the only stirring residents outside were crickets, grasses shifting with the whispered wind. If you were going to be awake and miserable, you could at least gaze into something other than your own empty ceiling--so you rolled out of bed with a groan, deciding bare feet and a nightgown were plenty appropriate for a time where you planned for no one else to see you.

On your tip-toes, the creak of wood could be mistaken for the settling of an old home, your fingers skimming the walls for stability while you crept down the steps and through the darkened halls. You weren’t sure what time it was, but you knew your Commander to be a man of little sleep and littler compromise--seeing him was the last thing you wanted at this moment. When you reached the back door, you held your breath, flipping the lock and easing the knob to the left, prying it open, only to be greeted with a huge black shadow.

“Jesus Christ!” You bit a scream between your teeth, stumbling back--as your vision focused, heat rushed you. It was a Knight Templar. “Um. Hello.”

“What are you doing here?” This was Ushar again--you recognized his voice from earlier--and you relaxed, slightly. Your awkward moment with him was already addressed. “You’re not permitted to leave the premises.”

Another sigh escaped you, and you crossed your arms. You would’ve felt more embarrassed to be only in your nightgown if he hadn’t already seen everything else.

“I’m not leaving,” you replied. “I just want to be outside for a second.”

Ushar glanced into the garden, then back to you. Or at least, you thought he did. Helmet and all of that. “It’s late. The Commander will expect you to be sleeping.”

“Well, to be honest, I don’t really care about that right now.” You went to push past him, and he side-stepped to follow you. “Oh, come on,” you said, “why are you even here? He’s home, he shouldn’t need you.”

“We’re on duty until his meeting with the Council tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Oh. I thought all of that was today.”

He shook his head. “Preparation. Tomorrow is execution.” A pause. “Figuratively speaking.”

Dread sank its tiny teeth into your stomach. “Or maybe literally, knowing him.”

Ushar cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Well.”

Silence settled between you. Strange, to speak with a man who had, less than 24 hours ago, stood in a circlejerk to spatter you with sperm, and stranger still to converse casually with him about the fact that your mutual Commander’s preferred solution to any issue was to blow its brains out.

“Well.” You cleared your throat, too, as if this would ease the tension in any meaningful way. “Look. I just want to walk around the garden a little bit. You can stand and watch me the whole time.” Half-grinning, you held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh. Um. Boy Scouts?” Your shoulders sagged. More heat at your face. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was the reminder that anything and everything familiar had been razed like a forest by Gilead’s flame. “They were like. A thing. Before…”

“Never heard of them.” Ushar paused, and pivoted to the side. “Go ahead. Don’t be long.”

“Thank you.”

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you slipped outside, neglecting the stone pathway and cutting into the grass. The little blades were fuzzy at your feet, wedging between your toes, and the air cleaned your lungs, the sky a lonely galaxy beyond the hedges and the yard. Gold twinkle lightning bugs flickered between the flowers, hovered above the pond, the sole source of light outside of the sterling moon and stars. You peeked over your shoulder at your sentinel--but he was motionless, observing you in silence.

Your feet carried you past the bench into the mini-maze, catching sight of the birdfeeder, the bag of seed. The Marthas hadn’t gotten to it, yet--not that they would have had time to--and in its day and a half of neglect, the bag had toppled over, spewing seed onto the ground, the feeder abandoned in two pieces by its side. It seemed almost rude, now, to see this mess and decide it was a job for someone else. With a shrug, you strode over, heaved the bag onto its bottom and started scooping handfuls of tiny kernels, dumping them back in.

They spilled like water through your fingers, raining onto your feet and the dirt--you seemed no closer to your goal with the next scoop than you had with the one previous. Another one, and another, and still the seed scattered, palms empty before you reached the bag. Sighing, you gave up, choosing instead to grab the feeder and pop on its top. As you gathered both halves in your hands, the backdoor opened, and you froze.

“Where is she.”

Your throat thickened. You dropped the feeder. He was here.

“She’s beyond the hedges, sir,” Ushar replied. “She just--”

Scuffing soles on stone cut him off, storming toward you--and you remained, unflinching. Even if you wanted to run, there was nowhere for you to go.

Kylo charged the corner into the maze, still dressed in black, his shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose his clavicles, which you hated to acknowledge. At the sight of you, he stalled, capturing you in his gaze, focusing on your figure, curves draped in your white nightgown, your breasts unbound, your hair wild vines over your shoulders. He swallowed, air rolling through him, attention drifting to your face. The muscle under his eye fluttered, his fists furled.

“You weren’t in your room.”

You knew hadn’t imagined it--the tremor in his voice, the quiver at his chin. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded scared.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Kylo took a single step--the distance between you seemed at once too great and too smothering, and he stopped, drawing a long breath through his nose. He stared, held it, chest rising, then released it, hands relaxing as he exhaled. His gaze slid to the hedge, tracing the woven ropes of leaves through the trimmed branches, wandering to the grass and landing there. The crickets hummed in the void. You would’ve asked why he had headed to your room if he hadn’t made the answer so plain to your eyes.

“The first time we met here,” he began, “I said I wanted to know you.”

You offered a slight shrug. “We’ve definitely become more familiar.”

“I do know you.” He glanced up. “I know that there’s a part of you that wants to stay.”

“Really.” Frowning, you shifted on your feet, ignoring the warmth at your cheeks. “You know that.”

Kylo stole a step. “Yes.” Another, and another. “I do know that.” Two more, and his long legs had brought him within arm’s length, his pupils wide in the night. “Because there’s a part of me that wants to leave.”

Oxygen escaped you, and you shook your head, averting your gaze. Crackled embers glowed in your heart; given his hesitations, his strangled frustrations, and your own inability to find resolve, this had been a part of him you’d already known. But to hear it from his mouth, given life on his lips, it was palpable. Tangible. You met his eyes again, paralyzed by their power--they were endless, brimming with emotion even you yourself had never been asked to name.

For a second, you forgot to speak, wondering how you could snatch this moment like spun glass in the air. Then you stepped closer, and grabbed his large, strong hand.

“Then why don’t we?” you murmured. “We can go. Just be. We can forget all of this.”

Kylo fled--for only a millimeter--before steeling himself, curling his hand around yours, and bringing it up to his face. He examined your thumb--now scabbed, but still sore, and stroked it with his own. Satisfied, he wove his fingers between yours, pulled you to his chest.

“All of this,” he said, “is under my control, now. I can keep you safe.” His other hand cupped your cheek, fingers coasting over your skin. “Make you want for nothing.”

Staring into him, into the vortex of his gaze, you tried to swallow the thickening desire to admit the only thing you did not want him to know.

��You keep saying that,” you replied, tugging his hand from your face. “But as long as I’m in Gilead, I will never want for nothing.”

His hand squeezed yours. “There’s more I need to do.”

You shook your head again. “Well, even if you could make that happen--”

“I can.”

“Even if you could.” You unwound your grip from his, stepping away. “What about everyone else?” The Resistance, the car chase, Poe’s head, Snoke’s mansion, the dress, the party, Tera Jackson, the Widows, the Wives, Johana--all dangled above your brain, a broken mobile composed of the casualties of your affair. “It’s not enough, it’s not fair to change my life when it makes everyone else suffer,” you said. “Why not just live a life where you don’t have anything you need to change?”

He raised a brow, as if he hadn’t understood the question. “Because I need to.”

You sighed. “But why?”

Kylo’s gaze broke from yours, aiming beyond you as his tongue traced his teeth in thought. A soft exhale, and his attention returned. “The world was flawed, before Gilead.”

“Gilead has only made the world more flawed.”

He grumbled. “Do you understand what happens to those without direction?” he asked. “Without order?” You were silent, waiting for him to continue--he speared you with his stare. “Chaos.” A tension in his throat. “Suffering.”

“Those without direction…” Head tilting, you searched his face. Puzzle pieces shifted close, edges locking--his rage, the graveyard, his terror, his Wife’s own words. “If the world wasn’t flawed, you wouldn’t have been abandoned,” you said. “That’s what you think.”

His eye twitched, jaw rigid. “It made sense.” Blowing air through his nose, he paced around you, fingers curling in and out of fists. “Snoke made sense. At first.” He huffed. “But he was just as flawed.” Steady and still, you watched him, watched his thoughts race through his mind, watched while he struggled to match them with words he had never had to speak. “Only I understand the consequences of chaos. Only I have the capability to perfect this.”

It emptied you, his hopelessness, his resignation that the only way out of his depthless hatred was to drown it in a void of control. You knew another way--knew it was nested within the words you couldn’t say.

You sighed. “You think that will fix it?” you asked, folding your arms over your chest. “You think that will make you satisfied? More whole?”

Kylo rounded, shoulders pinned back, a predatory curve to his spine. “Were you satisfied with life before Gilead?” he asked. “The loneliness. The uncertainty.” He drew closer, trapping you in his gaze. “Falling asleep empty. Waking up in agony.” Inches from you, he clutched your shoulder, turning you toward him, brushing your hair to your back. “I know your life, little bird.” His hand pinched your chin, his tone tinged with ire. “I know it because it was mine.”

Heat flashed through your spine. “It still is your life,” you growled, swatting his wrist and backing away, “you’re still miserable. And it’s still my life too, and it will be as long as you keep me!”

“You’re miserable,” he said, following you step for step. “You are the one who said you wanted all of me.” He was chasing you, stalking you as you retreated further into the maze, eyes rimmed gold in anguish. “And now you want to leave. Like everyone else.”

Your heart fractured. “Kylo--”

“I will end the Council if I need to.” He was black-winged in the moon’s shadow, a luminous Lucifer. “I will tear out every tongue that threatens your life if it will keep you here.”

A branch caught your sleeve, and you stumbled for only a moment, chin stiff. The threat was not hollow, but it was equally not wise. In his wrath, Kylo Ren did not believe there was a fight he could lose. In your sanity, you did not believe there was even a fight to be had.

“You can't do that. You know you can't.” A curly finger of the maze tugged you into the vines--you shrugged it off. “You know you won't be able to keep me safe forever.” There was no cease to his advance, no glimmer of cessation. “Johana is right.” The words flew from your mouth in a bid to convince him. “The Council won't stand by this. There's no such thing as divorce--”

“I don’t care.”

“--there’s no such thing as living with your Handmaid, I mean, do you expect us to get married--”

“I don’t care!”

Rapt in his gaze, you stumbled again, back flush with a wall of leaves, and Kylo consumed you, a silhouette against the sky, swallowing your sight. One hand grasped your wrist, the other pressed to your cheek, his palm smooth, your skin hot at his touch. You resisted the urge to melt into it.

“I want you,” he breathed, your name a ghost on his tongue. “I need you.” His lips trembled. “You are the only thing that makes sense.”

You were trembling too, quaking as you struggled to restrain the inevitability forming in your throat. Kylo Ren had been your Commander, the architect of your suffering. And he had been the only one in over three years to stir you, save you, see you--to care if you lived or died, to truly and genuinely desire not just your mouth, but the thoughts that came with it.

He had found you. You didn’t want to be lost again.

“I want you, too.” You nuzzled his hand, and he led you closer. “I need you, too.”

Kylo gathered you against his body, the hand at your wrist sneaking to caress your back, his fingers carding through your hair. There was no vacancy in his eyes; they were flooded, overflowing with warmth, with worship. You felt it--the thump of that silver pulse, the genesis of a clandestine reality you wanted, with every screaming cell in your body, to speak into existence--felt its weight as an echo on his tongue. His lips parted, his focus falling over your face.

Words would damn you. So you thrust your hands in his hair and pulled him into a kiss instead.

He enveloped you, mouth meeting yours as if it’d been years, a tender groan cresting in his chest while his grip clung to you, seeking your flesh through cloth. Humming in bliss, you sketched over his scalp with your nails, basking when he gasped and shivered at your touch, your tongue slipping past his teeth and sliding over his own. He moaned into you, pressing you to his frame, breaking off only to kiss you again, lips touching once, twice, before his full, plush mouth massaged yours and his tongue returned. There was no fury, no primal insistence--Kylo cradled you and contained you, held you like a man who was terrified to lose you, terrified to let you go.

Soft lips skimmed yours, and he stepped between your legs, pressure digging the hedges into your back. You whimpered in shock--he stopped and snatched you to his heaving chest, seeking the origin of your pain. It almost made you laugh, this protective urge, when you still bore the bruises and bumps from the previous night. Grinning, you eased away, catching his face in your hand and forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes swam, spinning oceans, eager and alive. Your breath hitched. It left your mouth without even trying.

“I don’t want to leave you,” you said. “Leave with me.”

Kylo paused--you could almost see his mind reeling--as he stared at you. His chest fell with dejected air, and he held you closer, tighter. A strong hand returned, cupping your face again. His head offered the tiniest shake.

“It’s too late.”

Your heart fractured further. “No, it’s not.”

His hold left you, then, comfort torn like skin from your bones when he stepped back. In summer air, you froze, icy without his embrace.

“What I’ve done…” He glanced to the side, pacing away, steps taking him a slow circle while he gazed into the corners of the mini-maze. “What I’ve done cannot be undone.” Looking back to you, the knot in his throat bobbed. “Even if I wanted it.” His hands clenched, unclenched, and he approached you again. “If I leave,” he said, “it won’t be with you. I will be arrested.” The severity in his expression petrified you. “Or I will be dead.”

Perhaps, in the back of your head, you’d always known this, always known that escape was not a simple solution for a Commander, and certainly not a man like Kylo Ren. But to hear him acknowledge it too, to seal himself to his own inexorable conclusion--it decimated you.

“Oh,” you said, as it was the only sound you could make for a moment. “War crimes.”

Kylo’s head dipped in acknowledgement. “Yes.” A pause, and he turned, thoughts cast across the yard, before swiveling back to you. “To stay is the only way,” he said. “For you to be mine.” He gestured to the garden. “For this to be ours.”

You frowned. “Ours?”

His hand dove into his pocket, plucked his wallet free. Stone-faced, he flipped it open, fished into the slot and produced a folded piece of paper, presenting it to you as an answer. Cocking a brow, you pinched an edge, looking between him and the little note as you unfolded it.

One corner was swathed in smooth, swooping ink, the opposite end festering with wobbly attempts at leaved-lines. In the middle, they met, blooming into a tiny Eden--beautiful, borne from the hallowed recognition that suffocated, unspoken between your mouths.

“Kylo…” Chin quivering, you suppressed a laugh. “You think,” you said, “after all of this, what I want is, is… to what, control this with you?”

“No.” His tone was serious. Sincere. “You want freedom. You want me.” Stepping toward you, he took your hand, dwarfing it in his own. The heat of his body choked you. “But we don't get to choose what we're owed, little bird. Destiny decides it for us.” His attention flitted to you and the drawing. “I know what roles we are meant to fulfill. This is not just mine.” His gaze bored into you, chaining you in a plea. “It’s yours.”

Kylo Ren did not want to leave. He wanted you with him. In power. In whatever capacity he decided.

The offer was not only disappointing, it was insulting. To think you would want to stay in a land where you’d watched women hang, to remain in a nation where, without him, you could never hope to survive. No matter what route you chose, with him, you lost. There would be no agency for you in a world where you reigned standing on cadavers. And for your child--there was no purity coming home to a burial ground.

You glanced at the drawing, mapping it to memory, imagining it in his pocket while he met with Council members, ferreted threats, worked late into the night--pictured it tucked away at his hip in the Audi, stowed somewhere safe on the Buzzard when he was with his men. And your fractured heart splintered into scarlet shards.

Meeting his eyes, you shook him free, taking the sheet in two hands. Without a blink, you shredded it in half, layered it, ripped again. You caged him in your stare, unflinching, as you turned the paper into flakes, tear by tear, and littered them across the grass. Kylo watched, carved from redwood: large and flushed and eerily still, until his gaze dropped to the ground. He was speechless--and the inevitable words burgeoned, a tangled mass in your throat again. This time, you said them.

“I hate you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, struck black with horror--but before he could think to respond, or you could take it back, you fled, sprinting through the maze with your nightgown hiked to your knees.

There was no sound behind you, not even the crunch of boots, and you were grateful for it, grateful as you skipped past the pond and up the stone path, as Ushar veered to the side, as you pounded the halls and up the steps to the annex. You were grateful that you hated Kylo Ren, grateful that it would not hurt when you rended him from your heart, grateful that whatever route you chose, without him, you’d win.

It was gratitude, certainly, you felt when you opened the door to your room, an empty hole and empty bed. It was gratitude, too, that flooded you when you collapsed onto the mattress with a groan, and gratitude that stung your sight, flowed past your cheeks, stained your pillowcase. Thank God, thank God you hated Kylo Ren, thank God he was so easy to hate, thank God you would not ache when you left him behind, made a home without him, or gave birth to his child.

A tiny knock on your door. You stopped, cries arrested in your chest, as you cranked your neck to the threshold. Were it not for this timid request for permission, you would’ve ignored it in belief it was the only person you did not want to see. Clearing your throat, you straightened and hopped onto your feet, wiping your face clear--not of tears, but gratitude--while you turned the knob and cracked it open an inch.

Johana, cloaked in a frilly blue robe, stood anxious in the hall. Her face twitched with fear, her eyes stark, her mouth tight. In silence, she held out her fist, and opened her palm.

The switchblade.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #handmaid au #fanfiction problems #i am so sorryyyyy

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a-pretty-nerd · 4 years

Text

Run (Jasper Jordan x Reader College!Au)

Request: “Hoi I wanna request a story sadly I don’t have Patreon though so u prob won’t make it hehe. It’s a Jasper Jordan x reader fan fic also I would love if it a High school/college Au and the readers parents don’t approve Jasper so she has to sneak out every time she wants to meet him but soon she finds out she’s pregnant so she runs away with him? Also your work is amazing!” ~ @deadqueeen

A/N: I was just about to say, “I’ve never done a college au before, uwu!” but I forgot about that entire self indulgent smut I wrote…big Oof. Anyways, love this idea, I love some good ol’ fashioned angst. Just a warning though, I did end up leaning heavily into the relationship reader has with their parents so just be prepared for some upsetting interactions.

If you like my work, don’t be afraid to interact! Gimme a like, comment, message, send a request my way if you like! And if you’d like to support me further, go ahead and check out my Patreon! I’d love to see you there!

Trigger Warnings: Mild Smut, Parental abuse, petting crime, and Pregnancy.

College was stressful as it is, but as the months passed, things were getting harder and harder to manage. Come your freshman year, a little thing called Covid-19 hit the world, sending it into a whirlwind of stress and unease.You sat in the shower, letting the warm water fall over your aching body as you stared blankly at your knees. After your panic attack you were left void of emotion and thought, sitting there wondering what to do and how to move. The water was a calming reminder that you were still present and very much alive.

Things had changed very quickly and yet it felt like that change took forever to get to you. Covid hit right before the end of your freshman year, forcing you to move back in with your parents until it “passed.” But it wasn’t passing and now you were starting your sophomore year at home.As stressful as it was, you missed school. You missed your friends, your dorm room, even your part-time job. But most of all, your freedom. You missed the carefree way in which you lived in the dorms. You had a taste or real life and you craved more.

You were trapped, for lack of a better word, imprisoned in your childhood home. You spent days without leaving the confines of it’s walls in a failed attempt to keep you safe and focused on school. Your parents weren’t always so strict, but they made it clear that school should be your top priority and anything else was an unwelcome distraction. Things like your boyfriend, were merely a hindrance to your education.You met Jasper your first day in the dorms. He was bright and smiling like an excited puppy, eager and willing to make new friends and new experiences. You quickly became friends, and then a little more. Before you knew it, the two of you were inseparable. He made you feel so wild and free. He nurtured the fun, carefree side of you that you didn’t even know existed. He cared for you in ways no one ever had before. He was so funny and kind and genuine. He gave you the tools to grow, and with his, you bloomed.

When the pandemic hit, it devastated the two of you. Being isolated and kept from one another proved too much to bare. You remember the first night you snuck out with him, terrified of alerting your parents. They hated Jasper, they forbade you from seeing him. Told you he’d do nothing but keep you down and stifle your potential. If only they could see how happy he made you. If only, they cared.Jasper would creep around to your backyard and gently tap at your bedroom window. 12 am, they’d always be asleep, the perfect time to make a quick get away and then 6am, you’d sneak back through your window.

The adrenaline of misbehaving always drove you crazy. Sneaking around in the dark of the night, stealing chased kisses from one another until it was too much to handle. You fell into each other’s arms almost every night, desperate kisses and moans in between the sound of skin slapping against skin. He made your hair curl.You were his first. He was awkward and silly at times but you whipped him into shape real quick. And now, he was a well trained boy toy ready and willing at any moment you desired. He was always so desperate for you, so needy and greedy for your body. But his kisses, no matter how passionate and crazed, were always so loving. He adored you in every way.

These secret rendezvous went on for months, all summer, it was routine, you couldn’t stay away from him. But, maybe you should have. With more classes fast approaching, you began to think about your future. If only you had the money to move out, you and Jasper could finally have a sense of normalcy. You could move in together, start a life together. But the pandemic and school sucked your savings dry and without the conditioned help from your parents, you were penniless. You finally stood on your shaky legs and lifted yourself out of the show. You dried yourself off, shuffled over to your room, dressing yourself, and waiting till the coast was clear. When all was quiet, you texted Jasper and soon he was at your window. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a far drive away. He gently tapped on the glass and leaned down to flash a big goofy grin from behind your curtains. You opened the window and let him in, shushing him as he fell into the room.

“Hey sweetness.” He whispered, loudly. He planted a soft kiss on your cheek as he held you by your hips.“Please be quiet, you’re making me nervous.” You hushed. His smile disappeared slowly as he examined your face. Your red eyes and puffy cheeks gave away your emotions. He was never good at reading a room, but there was little you could hide from him. He made you transparent.

“Have you been crying?” Worry washed over him as he placed his hands to hold your head and slide his thumbs over the soft skin on your cheeks. You tried to avoid his gaze but failed miserably.“Yeah…” You admitted, wiggling out of his grasp so you could sit on the edge of your bed. Your heart started to race, the anxiety and fear wrenching its was through your body. Even the thoughts made you want to cry again.

“Whats wrong? Did something happen with your parents?” You’d been having fights with them for some time now, and he knew it was taking a tole on you. Jasper offered to being you home to his folks, but his relationship with them was on the rocks as it was. Your small group of close friends were your only support. All things considered, the two of you were left on your own. “No…” You muttered, unable to bring yourself to say it out loud. The tears quickly came back up and started falling again. Your emotions, your fears, your pain took over you. You couldn’t get out a single word before your body jerked uncontrollably as you sobbed. It left a slew of incomplete words spewing from your mouth. “I-I….I-I I’m ….. Mmmm …. I’m …..” gasp, sob “Mmmmmha….” and the sobbing continued.

“Hey…Hey…It’s okay.” He cooed softly to you as he rubbed soft, slow circles on your back. It helped, but not much.“N-No…” you shook as you cried, “I’m-m-m-”

“It’s alright, take deep breaths, you don’t have to say anything until you’re ready.” He whispered to you. You clung to him desperately. It took time, but soon you felt good enough to speak again.“Jasper…”

“What sweetness?” He flashed you his kind and loving smile.“I’m pregnant.” You uttered softly. You watched the color drain from his face. His sweet smile faded away to a scowl and the fear rushed back to you. The sobbing started again as you chanted apology after apology, begging for him to stay with you. He didn’t move, he only held you where you were. Finally spoke.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s okay. This isn’t your fault. We tried, we were safe, it’s not your fault. Shhhhh. It’s okay.” Suddenly a bright light interrupted him. Your bedroom door swing open to reveal the large, looming figure of your mother. “What the hell is going on here!” She screamed. You watched in horror as your mother wrenched Jasper from your arms and threw him out into the living room. You followed her, pleading and begging her to stop as she hurled whatever was in reach at him. Shoes, pillows, plates, before your father reached around his collar to throw him out of the house.

The yelling and screaming continued through the night until the sun came up. Your father nailed your bedroom window shut. Your mother locked your door by pushing furniture in front of it to keep you inside. Your phone, your computer, every form of communication was taken from you. Every mistreatment and punishment being underlined by some iteration of, “this is for your own good” or “this is because we love you.”

You felt stuck in an emotional limbo for days on end as they kept you prisoner. You didn’t have the energy to cry or argue, there was nothing you could do or say. You had sit and stay, like a good girl.

One night you were woken by a soft tapping at your bedroom window. You jolted out of bed to see a pair of familiar eyes pear back. Monty stood on the other outside, a face mask and baseball cap hiding his features. He held up a notebook with writing on it and pressed it against the glass.

“Are you okay?” It read. You rushed to find paper and write back.

“I’m fine. Wheres Jasper?”

“Your Dad threatened to shoot him if he saw him again. So he sent me.” He wrote back.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. We’re busting you out of here.”

“How? They’re getting security cameras installed tomorrow.” Monty looked visibly concerned and thought for a moment before responding.

“Then we’ll have to do it tonight. Pack what you can. We’ll be back to get you in an hour.”

“How are you going to get me out? The window is nailed shut, I can’t get out.”

“Don’t worry. Just be prepare to run.” And with that, he left. You packed what you could. A few items of clothing, necessities, and water. You thought about leaving a note. Maybe telling your parents about your pregnancy, they had missed that part of your conversation, thank god. You decided against it, you still didn’t know what to do. Regardless, it was safe to say you could kiss your funding for school goodbye. You’d be on your own from now on. Well, not entirely.

You heard shuffling outside your bedroom window and looked outside to see two dark figures racing past. You watched as Bellamy peered in, face also obscured by a mask, and waved at you. Jasper’s mask covered face popped into view and planted his palm on the window before holding up a notebook.

“Get away from the window, and be prepared to run.” It read. As soon as you nodded in agreement, Jasper disappeared from view. You watched Bellamy swing his arms back with a crow bar in hand. The window shattered with a loud crash, glass flying all over your bedroom. He reached a hand out to you, his grasp firm as you clung to his forearm. You were pulled through to the outside and fell to the ground below.

“Go, go, go, run!” Bellamy whispered, loudly. You looked up at your parent’s house as the sound of dogs barking rang in your ears. Lights flew on from the house as well as neighbor’s lights. You felt so stiff and ridged. The urge to run suppressed by your fear. Jasper reached down and took your hand in his. You looked up at him, his eyes wide with urgency. He tugged at your arm, begging you to get up and run with him.

Suddenly, you felt free. You felt the strength to get up and push forward. Running with him to a car parked outside the house. The three of you bolted, tripping over yourselves as you raced against the clock. As soon as you were in the car, Octavia greeted you with a big toothy grin.

“Drive! Drive!Drive!” Jasper shouted at her. Her smile disappeared as she looked back at Jasper with you before her attention went back to the car. The engined roared as she adjusted the gears and soon you were off. Still panting, you looked back at your childhood home and saw your parents tumble out of the front door to try and chase after the car. Your dad tried to chase after the car, but stopped when he realized it was no use. Their figures soon disappeared.

Octavia cheered triumphantly as you turned back to catch your breath. A great big smile stretched across your face. You’d never felt so free before. You looked over to see Jasper still panting but sporting a bright smile as he looked at you. He reached a hand around the back of your head and pulled you in for a passionate kiss. You laughed and basked in the blissful feeling the adrenaline gave you.

Soon the moment passed and you were left holding one another’s hand as Octavia drove you to Bellamy’s apartment. You stayed the night, planned your escape. Apparently Jasper’s parents didn’t know he was leaving either, meaning the two of you were officially on the run. You had to leave town, like, now.

You pooled what money the two of you had, quick to take cash out of your account before your parents could freeze your debit card. Enough to get you out of town and settled in a hotel for a few nights, maybe even a few meals. But you couldn’t afford much without work after that. Lucky for the two of you, a friend from the dorms lived just a town over. You could stay with her a few days while you looked for work.

“What are you going to do?” Bellamy asked with a dark expression as he stared at you.

“What?” You were confused, hadn’t you just laid out your plan?

“Jasper told me you were...you have another problem.” His eyes flashed between the two of you before resting on you again, he was careful to not say anything too pointed.

“Oh...I...I don’t know.” You said under a whisper. Jasper rested a firm hand on your knee.

“How long have you known?” Octavia asked.

“Like a few days. Theres still time to think about it, I just...I just wanna get out right now.” Bellamy nodded his head.

“If you guys need anything, don’t be afraid to call okay?” He handed you a prepaid phone. You thanked them for your help, packed up, and left the next night. You hid under masks and baseball hats as you sat at the bus station. The cool night air brushed against you skin as you admired the bright lights of the street lamps above. Jasper squeezed your hand in his to get your attention. You looked at one another and smiled under your mask.

You’d never tell him this, but during the coarse of your relationship you had always worried about Jasper. Worried that maybe you weren’t as serious as you felt. Maybe you were just a little fun to him, the rush of a forbidden romance being what drove him to you. But now, with him so willing run. So willing to leave his comfortable life just for you. Regardless of the responsibilities that came with it. He chose you, without a second thought, he chose you.

The dark street road was empty and serene. You watched as bats flew down to catch bugs that swarmed the lights above you. Despite your situation, you felt safe and warm there beside him. For the first time, you felt confident that everything is going to be okay.

#jasper jordan #jasper jordan imagine #jasper jordan smut #jasper x reader #jasper jordan x reader #The 100 #the 100 au #The 100 college au #the 100 imagine #jasper jordan x pregnant reader #jasper

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